


Smaller Designs

by ftld



Series: Call Your Name [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Getting Together, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, feelings are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftld/pseuds/ftld
Summary: Hajime’s mouth goes bone-dry and he’s left staring down at Oikawa when he realizes‘we’re starting over, we can be anything we want.’Or, in which Hajime is utter trash at dating, adapting to college, and having feelings.  Sometimes in that order, but more often all at once.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Series: Call Your Name [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019386
Comments: 43
Kudos: 155
Collections: Creative Chaos Discord Recs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I'm still reading the manga but I'm aware that~~ I’ve finished reading the manga and I don’t care that certain aspects of this are totally jossed. I'm calling it self-indulgent AU. Neener neener, canon.
> 
> I am also hella late to this party. I don’t really care about that either, I want my shot at this trope.
> 
> Rated for 19 f-bombs. tbh I thought that number was _way_ higher.
> 
> Thanks to Empress_of_yaoi for beta reading.
> 
> Now with amazing [Chapter 2 (and on) art by @TheTiny_Thief](https://twitter.com/TheTiny_Thief/status/1360025823760236544)!

Hajime must have done something terrible in a past life. Something so bad that not even eleven years of putting up with Oikawa is enough to get him out of the red. It’s the most comforting explanation he can come up with—he doesn’t want to believe the universe is so cruel at random. The ground can open up and swallow their apartment building whole any minute now, Hajime won’t complain.  
  
A thunderous cackle reverberates through the apartment. Oikawa wheezes when he tries to catch his breath. “I still can’t believe you did that.”  
  
“Shut _up_.” Hajime snarls from face-down on the couch. His face burns against his arms and the cushions. If the ground isn’t going to swallow him, then maybe he should just stay here forever. It’s a nice couch; he could make it work.  
  
A few minutes pass and Oikawa slowly gets himself under control. Hajime peeks over his elbow. Oikawa stares back, impassive for only a handful of seconds before his face screws up and a rapid, high-pitched squeal erupts from his throat.  
  
The frustrated growl that comes next is Hajime’s.  
  
“I keep thinking I’ll say something like, ‘this is why you don’t have a girlfriend,’ except I don’t think that works, you’re making it too _easy_.” Oikawa shuffles around, knocking into the table twice as he maneuvers to face Hajime directly.  
  
“Fuck off. I don’t want a girlfriend.” Especially not one that gathers up nine of her friends and then flat-out ambushes him on an otherwise perfectly nice Friday afternoon. It was too hot, he was tired from practice, and he’d honestly thought they were through with this nonsense three months ago when they moved to Tokyo. They’re nobodies, not even in contention for the starting lineup. At Nittaidai there’s no fan club for Oikawa, he doesn’t have the same throes of anxious girls clamoring for him to try their chocolates, listen to their feelings, or breathe in their general direction. It’d been a nice change of pace, until today.  
  
“She was cute!”  
  
Maybe Hajime could solve his problems by kicking Oikawa out of the apartment. Though that would require moving and Hajime is content to stay right where he is, hating the world at large to cope with his mortification.  
  
“Why do they do that?” Hajime’s arms come up over his head. His chest feels tight, wound-up—how did people deal with this shit? He peeks at Oikawa again. “They group up, ambush you, force you to answer them in front of everyone. It’s horrible, how do you stand it?”  
  
Oikawa looks scandalized. “How dare you, I love confessions.”  
  
“Of course you do. Must be why you were cowering behind me when you noticed this one coming.”  
  
“They are amazing,” Oikawa continues, ignoring the barb. “Magical. Right up there with orgasms and no-touch service aces.”  
  
_Pffckt_. The noise is somewhere between a chuckle and a screech choked off by clenched teeth. After a moment, it turns into a full-on laugh. “You’re right, that was just like getting schooled by a service ace.”  
  
“And you call _me_ dramatic. It’s your own fault for not seeing it coming, she obviously wanted to talk to you.” Oikawa gets up and pats Hajime’s shoulder with a snicker before wandering back to the kitchen. Louder, he says, “Plus your name was on the letter.”  
  
_Hmph._ Calling it a letter is too generous. The pink, glittery stationery folded in half with cutesy writing on the outside and sealed with over-sized bear stickers is only big enough for a name and phone number; or perhaps an email address or some other contact information. Hajime hasn’t looked. It’s still wedged between his Biology textbook and the folder with his notes.  
  
“I thought for a second you were going to give it back to her, I would have paid good money to see that, actually. I think it would have been less offensive than saying ‘okay’ and _leaving_.”  
  
_“I_ thought I told you to _shut up_.” Hajime rubs his palms over his face trying to hide the heat rising in his cheeks.  
  
Oikawa gives him a blessed, entire minute without being a raging asshole, then opens the fridge. “Should I order out? You look exhausted from all that crushing of innocent hopes and dreams you did today. Or I could make eggs if you feel courageous.”  
  
“Bite me.”  
  
“Sure.” The fridge door closes with a heavy thump. A moment later Oikawa pinches Hajime right in the side, the jackass. Hajime grabs hold of Oikawa’s wrist before he can get away and twists. “Ow! Ow! You asked for it, you _literally_ asked for it!”  
  
“I’ll cook if you run the wash,” Hajime offers, loosening his hold but not letting Oikawa go.  
  
It’s a formality—bargaining when the outcome is predetermined. Oikawa can’t cook, so Hajime deals with the food. Hajime is useless with laundry, so Oikawa hangs their freshly washed clothes out on the balcony to dry and then—if he’s feeling particularly ambitious—puts them away without paying attention to whose shirts are whose instead of leaving everything in the laundry basket for them to pick through. At night Oikawa monopolizes the bathroom for a solid hour and he pays the rent because he can remember that much, so Hajime gets up early and takes care of the rest of the bills.  
  
The arrangement works for them, and Hajime likes this place he and Oikawa call theirs. It’s not much of an apartment: the kitchen little more than a hallway leading to the living room with a single bedroom off one side and balcony on the other. Noise isn’t a big concern, the building seems to house students exclusively despite being a decent hike from campus and far from the party-heavy dorms. Their belongings mixed up and scattered over the small space is comforting in some strange way Hajime can’t wrap his head around. It’s hardly the first time they’ve shared space, but something about having it be theirs and no one else’s makes it different. Stacks of magazines piled without care for the name on the labels are familiar, but the toothbrushes side-by-side in the little stand Hajime’s mother put on their list of necessities is something new. Hajime stares at them sometimes, trying to pinpoint what, exactly, about it makes his chest go warm.  
  
“Deal. Feed me something with lots of carbs. Noodles, if you please. Lots and lots of noodles.”  
  
“You’ll get what you get and you’ll like it,” Hajime grumbles. He lets go of Oikawa’s wrist and hauls himself up with a groan. College is brutal, exhausting. There’s a constant state of anticipation, flux, and stress—and that’s just the academic side of it. Volleyball is an entirely different story, and now there are girls, too?  
  
Oikawa pulls out a pot and fills it with water, and honestly, noodles sound as good as anything else.  
  


*** * ***

Later, after they’ve rolled out their futons with larger gaps between their bedding and the walls than in the pitiful space between them, Hajime sneaks back into the living room.

The world, as a whole, feels like it’s determined to stay focused on what’s the same rather than how much has changed. Thinking about it too much makes Hajime feel disoriented and anxious, like someday that spacious world around him is going to notice all these little things that are different and reorganize itself in the blink of an eye. It’ll realize that they’re not playing at sleepovers anymore, and when that happens Hajime will have to put some effort into examining all these little things he’s not quite sure about.

With far more caution than necessary, Hajime quietly eases open the zipper on his school bag and digs out the little, folded up paper. Flecks of glitter stick to his fingertips; it’s probably all over his books, too. He glances toward Oikawa splayed out on his back, snoring and taking up far more space than he should be able to reach. Flashes of the afternoon sun and curling humiliation rock him from head to toe. Hajime turns the paper over in his hands and thinks about ripping through the stickers in the name of seeing what all the fuss is about. Surely there must be something to it otherwise no one would bother.

He tosses it in the wastebasket instead.

*** * ***

Kuroo Tetsurou is a weird guy. Hajime’s just unsure if he’s _as_ weird as he makes himself out to be.

The hair alone is pretty crazy, simultaneously swooping up and drooping over one eye in a way that’s disrespectful to physics. The vertical height of it is something ridiculous like seven or eight centimeters. Since Kuroo’s posture consists of a straight back and chest puffed out, Hajime’s always left craning his neck around him because every time he sees those ridiculous spikes he has to wonder how anyone could stand having so much crap in their hair, _especially_ at practice. Hajime agrees with Oikawa: Kuroo is missing the eyeliner to make the look really pop.

Kuroo smiles like a shark, has a blocking and defensive game that makes Hajime want to beat him in the face with a golf club, and has dialed straight into Oikawa’s insanity with a gleeful disregard for human decency. Which is how Hajime has found himself trapped in an endless cycle of Sunday afternoons spent with Oikawa and Kuroo lounging around his apartment. It kind of blows Hajime away as he watches in fascinated horror while Kuroo and Oikawa rate their various attributes on an exceedingly complicated scale of one to one-hundred. And they’re not rating each other, no, they’re rating _themselves_.

“My hair,” Oikawa says with the conviction of someone who believes what they are saying down to their very soul, “is a ninety-eight. I’m being modest, of course, but it would be obnoxious to give myself a perfect score when the next item on my list is propriety.”

Hajime can’t help but wonder, “Do you even know what that means?”

“His vocabulary score was only forty-three, so probably not.” Kuroo leans back on his palms and checks the notebook to his right. “Pinkie fingers.”

“Oh, that’s a complicated one.” Oikawa sounds breathy, like an anxious spectator.

Kuroo holds his left hand out and spreads his fingers. “I mean, overall I have nice hands, but I’m not sure how much the pinkie itself contributes to it.” He bends his pinkie down.

Hajime keys Oikawa’s latest number into the spreadsheet open on his laptop. It’s half indulgence and half a learning exercise. When they’re done, Hajime’s going to post the data all over the internet so that when he tries to explain how insane Oikawa is he’ll have evidence at hand.

“Seventy-eight,” Kuroo declares after some debate that Hajime ignores in favor of a silly little browser game. He scribbles in his notebook. “It’s a shame they’re not more aesthetically proportionate with the rest of my fingers, but what can you do?”

“Speaking of words we don’t actually know the meanings of,” Hajime mutters under his breath.

Oikawa groans and reaches both arms toward the ceiling, arching his back until something pops. “Let’s have movie night.”

“Movies, or creepily watching our teammates’ past tournaments?” The distinction is important; if he doesn’t clarify, Oikawa will want to do both and Hajime needs to prepare for a lecture tomorrow.

“You do realize that we have twice as much free time as last year and about half the schoolwork, right?” Oikawa arches an eyebrow and makes a valiant attempt to stare Hajime down. Too bad Hajime is way better at this than Oikawa is. “Fine. Volleyball stalking.”

Kuroo turns in place and scoots to the side of the table so he can see the TV. “I’m in. Don’t get me wrong, it’s totally creepy how you two analyze your teammates like they’re enemies to conquer, but whatever. Do Nekoma, it’ll be fun.”

“Pick one,” Oikawa says, fishing the little basket full of burned DVDs out from the shelf under the end table. He grabs the remote and presses a few buttons, sighs, and hands it to Hajime. “Dead again.”

“I’m not at your beck and call, do it yourself.”

Oikawa makes the frustrated, growling noise Hajime has come to associate with this argument before stomping into the kitchen and rummaging through the drawers.

Hajime stares up at the ceiling and uses every bit of restraint in his body to keep silent when Oikawa whines, “I hate batteries.”

“You are the most random person I’ve ever met in my life.” Kuroo shuffles through the pile of discs in his lap before grabbing the one that has _‘Kuroo T: Nekoma vs. Fukurodani - Qualifiers’_ scrawled on it in Oikawa’s claustrophobic handwriting. “You ever meet any of the guys from Fukurodani?”

Hajime and Oikawa shake their heads.

“Remind me to arrange introductions some time.”

Forty minutes later, Kuroo stands next to the TV with a ruler he stole from Hajime’s loosely organized pile of school supplies, breaking down the exact moment he trashed Bokuto Koutarou with a block point and—according to Kuroo—came _this close_ to ruining Bokuto’s entire year.

“See? He thinks I’m going to be caught off guard by a line shot, but that dumbass tries it at least once every game. He thinks he’s clever, but really he just sees Akaashi do something like a setter dump and remembers it’s a thing he can do. No more than four rallies later, _bam_ attempted feint. He’s so predictable that Akaashi started planning his dumps around it.”

“The point of this,” Oikawa says with crossed arms and a mulish scowl, “was to analyze _you_.”

“But we’re going to play _against_ Bokuto, and I _refuse_ to lose to him again,” Kuroo says like he can’t believe Oikawa’s so dense. When he looks to Hajime to back him up, Hajime shrugs. It’s important to gain familiarity with their teammates, too.

Oikawa bitches at Kuroo to stop blocking the TV and goes back to muttering the plays under his breath. When Nekoma calls a time-out, he says, “It’s fascinating how you are all organized around your setter.”

“He was the brain of the operation.” Kuroo shrugs and raps the television screen with his ruler. “Now, watch carefully, kiddos, ‘cause there’s no way you were playing anything like this in Miyagi. Man, I wish we could have played you guys at some point. Guess we’ve all gotten bamboozled by Karasuno, though this one’s probably not fair to blame on them. Still, kind of makes you want to hang Sawamura up on a telephone pole by his underwear, no?”

“Easier said than done,” Oikawa says.

Hajime snorts. “Yeah, I’m not helping with that.”

“It is an intriguing question, though.” Oikawa watches as Nekoma’s opposite hitter digs a wicked-looking attack. “Who would have won? Guess we’ll never know, now.”

Kuroo watches the game in silence for a few rallies and then sighs. “Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy, but goddamn I hope Akaashi decides not to play in college.”

“Why’s that?” Hajime wonders. The guy is a fantastic setter.

“‘Cause if he does, he’ll go to Chuo with Bokuto, and they’re a _nasty_ combination.”

“People don’t just go to Chuo,” Oikawa says, which is rich coming from him because Hajime’s ninety-nine percent certain that Oikawa certainly could have _just gone_ there and chose not to.

Kuroo smiles and watches his team serve. “Believe me, he’ll get it done if he wants to.”

Hajime wonders how many of these guys they’re going to wind up facing on the court, and how many are like Hanamaki and Matsukawa who were able to up and move on without much thought. How many of these guys are like him, gone from carrying the team to warming the bench, just one face of many?

*** * ***

Two and a half hours trapped on a train with Oikawa is a reality Hajime should probably get used to.

They’re only going home for the weekend; it’s Oikawa’s birthday and they’ve got plans to meet up with the Seijou guys, too. Neither of them has seen their parents since moving to Tokyo, though Oikawa has been back home twice for his nephew. Originally, Oikawa had intended to make this trip alone, too, but Hajime couldn’t stand the thought of a third visit home to an empty house, and Ma made it clear she wouldn’t stand for it, either. Hajime spends most of the trip glued to his laptop, a History textbook balanced between his thigh and his seat, thoroughly ignoring every bizarre face Oikawa makes at his magazine.

Once they pass Sendai, Hajime has to manage the combination of Oikawa’s arm looped through his, cheek on his shoulder, and the claustrophobia of being boxed in on all sides. The motion of the train isn’t helping. Hajime gets why Oikawa is being clingy and weird, but it’s starting to overwhelm his tolerance. It’s a compromise—moral support, but Hajime still flies out of his seat and onto the platform as soon as the train comes to a stop in Miyagi.

When Oikawa grabs hold of his arm again on the short walk back to their neighborhood, it’s easier to handle without the train caging him in. Hajime draws Oikawa a little closer, bumps their shoulders together and tries his best for a supportive smile. Oikawa’s answering grin is close enough to the real deal to make it worthwhile.

They’ve barely stepped through the door when Hajime’s mother squeals. Oikawa rushes past, arms spread wide. “Auntie!”

The hugs that take place between Oikawa and Ma have always been disturbing, and this one is no different. Hajime isn’t sure who’s buried in whose arms or which of them is swinging in circles—and is it Ma kicking her legs in the air? Oikawa has his face buried in her hair, voice thick with the emotion caught in his throat as they bounce in place.

“Hajime!” Before he knows it, he’s drawn in and trapped between them.

“You’d think the two of you haven’t seen each other in years. Chill out.” Hajime doesn’t mean it. Oikawa calls Ma more than Hajime does, misses her in a way he doesn’t need to. Considering that Oikawa’s heading to his own house next, Hajime wouldn’t dare deprive him of this reunion.

Ma lifts an arm from where it snaked around his shoulders and smacks the back of his head. “You hush now, I’ve been without my babies for ages. I could have died any minute from the crushing sorrow.”

“You’re so dramatic.” Hajime rolls his eyes.

Oikawa wails, “I thought I was dying, too!”

Arms tighten from all sides. How the hell did Hajime wind up in the middle of this insanity? Another handful of squeezes, some weeping, then one pinch carefully aimed at the exact spot on Oikawa’s side where he’s the slightest bit ticklish, and Hajime is free.

He leaves Oikawa and Ma to catch up and heads upstairs to collapse onto his bed. It feels smaller than it used to—could be he grew some, or maybe he’s gotten used to a futon. Crossed arms pillow his head and he lets his eyes close, just for a bit—only enough for a weary exhale to let go of the lingering anxiety that plagues him in Tokyo. It’s nice to be home. The soft voices floating up the stairs and through his bedroom door are comforting and familiar.

When Oikawa shouts, “Later,” up the stairs, Hajime is nearly asleep.

Half-past five Hajime stumbles down the stairs to find his father trying to sneak bites of dinner off the stove. Ma shoves him back toward the table, a fond smile on her face despite it being a nightly occurrence. She tells Hajime, “Go fetch Tooru, would you? He probably lost track of the time or got caught up in a video game.”

Lies, absolute lies and Hajime’s shoes are on before gratitude for Ma’s impatience registers. Hajime’s not stupid, he knows Ma is straight-up psychic. The number of times she’s ordered him next door to find Oikawa with bags under watery eyes and a lonely frown over his lips numbers in the thousands by now. He drags Oikawa back home every time so Ma can wrap him up in both arms because somehow, she _knows_.

The house next door is dark and quiet. Hajime knocks twice and nudges the door open without waiting for an answer. Nothing has changed, and after a moment of confusion Hajime can’t figure out why he thought it would have; all those little things that are different are in Tokyo, not Miyagi. Oikawa’s bedroom door is ajar, the only source of light in the house. When Hajime shoves it open Oikawa startles, but not as much as Hajime was hoping for.

“Let’s go, dinner time.”

Oikawa lays on the floor by his bed, a thick textbook open and highlighter crunched between his teeth. He keeps his head down, looks up through his lashes, and sighs. “I should know better by now.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Hajime waits for Oikawa to glance back up with a bright and fraudulent smile, but the moment doesn’t come. Hajime should have dragged himself out of bed and came over here with him—he didn’t think of it, but next time he will.

This is nothing new, just the same disappointment in a new setting. Oikawa’s parents never make it home for dinner or clear their weekends for their son. Hajime can count on one hand the number of games they’ve attended, not one of them a game that mattered. Celebrations have taken place at Hajime’s house ever since they were eight years old and Ma realized the kid next door was microwaving his own left-overs for dinner. It was a miracle Oikawa survived to be eight years old at all; his cooking has always been atrocious.

“Come on, Ma’s waiting.”

“Right.” Oikawa throws his book back where it came from and Hajime grabs it along with the overnight bag full of clothes. Oikawa makes a disingenuous noise of protest.

“We both know she’s not letting you leave again.”

That, finally, gets the start of a real smile. Hajime’s always been fascinated by how much it means to Oikawa to be wanted.

*** * ***

Despite Oikawa’s enthusiasm, Hajime refuses to allow him to interrupt the Saturday practice at Seijou. Instead, they meander around town for a few hours after breakfast before heading over closer to the end. No one notices when they slip into the gym. Hajime clamps a hand over Oikawa’s mouth to keep him from shouting.

Some noticeable paradigm shifts have occurred since Hajime’s class departed. Kyoutani and Watari hover on the outskirts of the group working on spikes using the scrimmage net—used to be Kyoutani would flee to the opposite side of the building and Watari would throw himself into the thick of things. Across the court are a terrified pair of string beans that Hajime assumes are the first-years.

Receiving practice? With Mad Dog? Apparently, Yahaba is a little bit evil. Hajime will have to pull him aside sometime and compliment him on a job well done. No way those guys fold under any opponent after this.

A strangled, excited “ _ah!_ _”_ breaks up the flow of practice once Watari catches sight of Oikawa. The guys mostly stay in line, but Kindaichi has always been an over-enthusiastic wreck and Kunimi uses the distraction to relocate to receiving practice with the first-years, where it’s easier to slack off.

“Mad Dog-chan!” Oikawa screeches once it’s clear they’ll be a distraction either way and Hajime removes his hand from his mouth. Oikawa promptly launches himself straight at Kyoutani. The poor guy looks like he knows he can’t faint without losing ninety percent of his ferocity and that’s the only thing keeping him conscious. Hajime still doesn’t understand Oikawa’s fixation with smothering people who don’t want affection, but it’s such an intrinsic part of him that Hajime has learned to accept it. As much as he has to, anyway.

“Don’t call him that, dumpster-face.” Hajime begins the long process of dragging Oikawa back to the sidelines. “Sorry, Coach.”

Mizoguchi looks ready to tear them a collective new one when Coach Irihata claps his hands. “Cool down and head out. We’re done for the day, anyway.”

The annoyance Mizoguchi was radiating at the interruption drops to about thirty percent once the last of the team has filed out of the gym. He turns his focus on Oikawa and Hajime. “Tell me how things are going at Nittaidai.”

Hajime lets Oikawa handle the conversation; he doesn’t have much to say about it. Practice is roughly the same and they haven’t had any serious matches yet. Just like in high school they spend hours each day on conditioning, targeted drills, and scrimmages. The only difference is that Hajime never felt so inferior at Seijou.

Coach Irihata seems to understand some of where his head is. “It can be rough at first, but you’ll catch up in no time. No one expects you to be competitive with men three years older than you right away. Focus on your fundamentals and on learning your new team, and you will do just fine.”

“Yes, Coach.” They both say it without thinking twice.

Hajime invites the first-years to join in on lunch once everyone has trickled from the club room, clean and changed. The pair of them give Kyoutani terrified glances and decline twice before Yahaba throws his arms over their shoulders and drags them along anyway.

Oikawa’s favorite restaurant is a not-quite traditional ramen place four blocks from Seijou. The owner is expecting them; there are already three tables pushed together toward the back where they’ll cause less of a commotion for the other customers. Hajime winds up between Kyoutani and Kunimi. Oikawa sits across the table rubbing his hands together with a grin and elbowing Kindaichi in the ribs for the hell of it.

Once they’re settled with orders given and drinks received, Kindaichi—who doesn’t know any better—asks, “Aren’t you going to spend time with your family?”

There’s a collective cringe among the current third-years and Hajime, but none of them move to intervene. Kindaichi realizes after ten seconds of silence that maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up and tries to hide his face in his hands without being too obvious.

Oikawa shrugs. “They’re busy. We shook hands over breakfast and I have been informed that they are both proud and expectant of me. Got a wad of cash for my birthday, what more could I want?”

It sounds devastating when put like that. Hajime feels something tense within his chest that isn’t quite anger or sadness but not far from either. He’d been at breakfast, too, had also received a handshake that left him torn between wanting to cry and wanting to beat up the coffee maker.

“I forgot about all that money, maybe you should be treating us,” Hajime says so Oikawa will sputter and focus on something else. He kicks Oikawa’s foot under the table. Not hard, just a nudge, a reminder that he’s not alone.

A steaming bowl of ramen distracts Oikawa from defending his birthday cash. Tension breaks with the food and teasing—Kindaichi’s still a bit red in the face, but he’ll get over it. The pack of them descend on their lunch.

*** * ***

Oikawa doesn’t bother to pretend he’s going to stay at his house that night. Instead, they hide away in Hajime’s bedroom. Oikawa sits crossed-legged on top of the futon from under Hajime’s bed, frowning at the messages coming through on his phone. He taps out a few replies but doesn’t ever seem to send one. His frown darkens. Eventually, he sighs and tosses the phone down on the futon so he can’t see the screen.

“I don’t understand girls.”

“Problem with—” _shit_ , Hajime’s met her twice but doesn’t know her name. “—your new lady friend?”

“Lady friend?” Oikawa asks, leaning back on his palms. His nose wrinkles. “Who talks like that?”

“You’ve said the words ‘lady friend’ to me at least five times since we moved, so I guess you do.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes. “She’s fine. I think.” The phone chirps again. Oikawa glares at it for contradicting him. “Fine, she’s kind of upset because I didn’t think to tell her we were leaving for the weekend.”

“Idiot.” Secretly, Hajime wonders if he wouldn’t do the same. Why the hell would Oikawa need to tell that girl anything, they barely know each other. It can’t be anything serious. If it was, Oikawa would give him hell for not knowing her name, like he did to that first girl at the beginning of the year who kept calling him ‘Umizumi’.

Oikawa shrugs and leans over to pull Hajime’s laptop off the desk and search for a movie—he picks the first one on the recommendations list without checking what it is. Hajime slides down to the futon, presses his back against the mattress, and tosses the blanket from his bed over their legs. They don’t need it. It’s too warm in the house and the fan doesn’t provide much relief from the lingering heat of the afternoon sun, but they’ve been doing this since they were children. Back then, they’d crawl under the kotatsu in the living room with only their heads sticking out. Late into the night they’d watch the television with wide-eyed excitement, legs tangling together beneath the table.

As the movie plays, Hajime sinks further and further. His head drops to Oikawa’s shoulder. Then, to a pillow propped against Oikawa’s thigh, legs curled next to him and feet off the end of the futon. The blanket comes up around his elbows. He doesn’t have the faintest idea what the movie is about; Oikawa’s picks are all focused on flesh-eating slugs or killer iguanas the size of rottweilers or something equally ridiculous and not at all worth paying attention to.

Oikawa absently plays with the locks of Hajime’s hair that always clump together in the back when he goes too long without a haircut. It could be the nostalgia and the atmosphere, or maybe it’s the twinge of homesickness finally sated after months away, but Hajime feels like he could be content in this lulling quiet forever. It’s surreal, this bubble they’re in where it’s still third year at Seijou and everything is less complicated.

“You have a good time?” Hajime asks, eyelids heavy, words slurring together. The gentle movement in his hair pauses.

“It was alright. Was nice to see the guys.” Oikawa gently tugs on a piece of Hajime’s hair near his neck. “I’m glad we’re going home tomorrow, though.”

Hajime hums, struggling to stay awake as the heroine of the movie explodes into a bloody mess because of… zombies? Are they watching a zombie movie? “What do I have to do to get you to pick a decent movie?”

Oikawa laughs. It’s a distant rumble and Hajime’s eyes slide closed when he stops remembering to keep them open. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He should probably be offended, but Hajime feels too lazy to care.

*** * ***

The chaos of the upcoming term’s end kicks back into gear the second Hajime wakes up Monday and doesn’t let up all day. After practice he barely has enough time to shower, change, and wave an acknowledgment of Oikawa’s screams to meet him at the Lab building later before he has to sprint to the Library. He takes the stairs inside two at a time even though his legs are screaming at him and he does _not_ make a face when he drops into a chair across from Sawamura. His book bag falls to the floor with a heavy _thud_.

Sawamura doesn’t have his books out yet, opting instead to snicker at his phone as he taps at the screen. They didn’t see much of each other today—Sawamura’s in a different conditioning rotation, though they do usually wind up running drills together. He’s another one of those guys whose defensive game makes Hajime feel violent in the best sort of way. One of these days Hajime’s going to land a spike _just_ outside Sawamura’s reach, and it’s going to be amazing.

“Lit?” Hajime asks, something akin to dread and ineptitude battling it out in his voice. The novella they’re assigned is so dry and boring, it has the unfortunate effect of making his brain forget how to comprehend words. He should have finished it ages ago but every time he tries to sit down and read he keeps getting stuck on whole paragraphs at a time, reading them over and over without absorbing what they say.

Sawamura groans. “Yeah, Lit. Heard you’re a heartbreaker, now.”

Hajime sighs. Of course, Oikawa is still telling everyone who will listen about it. “I hate confessions.”

The rest of the small group trickle into the library as Hajime tells the story of his awkward collision. It’s not a formal study group by any means, more a collection of people who share some classes and do their work together. Hajime used to study at home by himself, but now home comes with even more Oikawa than it did in high school. While Hajime is adept at ignoring the lunatic, it’s easier to do schoolwork far, far away.

“Why’d you turn her down?” Sawamura asks. Unlike Oikawa’s badgering, Sawamura’s question sounds genuinely curious.

“I’ve got enough going on right now.” Hajime doesn’t mention that he threw the note away or that glitter from the stationary is still stuck to his Biology textbook. Sawamura is nice enough not to ask.

Sawamura has a hearty laugh. “I have to admit, I’m the same way. Never had time for things like dating or parties in high school, and I don’t really feel like I have any now. Any free time I had was spent practicing, and you guys seemed way more intense than we were.”

Hajime’s not going to mention that he’s pretty certain Karasuno trained to the point of insanity, far past the craziness that was Oikawa’s regimen. Shit, at least at Seijou they had a day off. The tenacity paid off for Karasuno, though. Hajime still feels twinges of failure and jealousy if he thinks too much about it.

They stick around for another hour, but once their table is full enough that the seats next to them get claimed, Hajime jerks his head toward the stairs. Five minutes later they’re both packed and out the door. Hajime groans and lets Sawamura follow him toward the Lab building. Oikawa won’t be ready yet, but Hajime doesn’t mind hanging around for a bit. “Come over. We’ll finish studying and I’ll feed you.”

“Whose turn is it to pick the movie?” Sawamura asks, rightly afraid.

“Come on, you know it’s always my turn and Oikawa doesn’t care.”

Sawamura hangs back a bit. “Can he at least pick one that’s not so gross?”

“Probably not. Just bail after studying and dinner.”

“I think I’d rather head home.” Sawamura reaches a fist out in parting before leaving Hajime at the Lab building to wait for Oikawa alone.

Hajime spends fifteen minutes playing solitaire on his phone, leaning against the concrete wall lining the sidewalk. Oikawa didn’t say exactly why they had to meet here, only some brief shouting about a project this morning, and again after practice. Hajime’s learned to stop listening once the demands get to a certain point. He’s happier not knowing.

Another couple of minutes pass and a shiver runs over the back of Hajime’s neck. There’s a woman nearby watching him. She’s vaguely familiar, enough so that it bothers Hajime a little that he can’t place her. Is she in one of his classes? Some friend of a friend, maybe? After a few minutes, he glances over again. Her lips press together and she gives him an odd, expectant look that catapults Hajime straight from being a little annoyed with himself for not being able to figure out who she is to being annoyed with her for obviously thinking he shouldn’t be having this problem. Before he can think better of it he asks, “You need something?”

His question seems to upset her. “Are you waiting for Tooru-kun, too? Isn’t… We’ve met a few times at his apartment.”

Whoops.

“Iwa-chan!” echoes across the campus.

There’s a split-second where Oikawa grins maniacally before clamping his hands over his mouth. He breaks into a run, shoots past the woman waiting for him, and stops within reach of Hajime, desperation in his eyes and the fingers curled over his mouth. Oikawa sputters. Hajime moves before he thinks—surges forward with arms outstretched, one thought echoing in his mind. _What_ _’s wrong?_

A loud, hacking, _fake as fuck_ cough erupts from Oikawa’s throat.

Before his brain catches up enough to reassess the situation, two fistfuls of crushed, pale pink flower petals explode in his face. Hajime shakes his head. Looks at Oikawa, then at the pink mess down at his feet. At Oikawa again, then at the woman standing a few paces back halfway between rage and tears, looking unsure of which way to go.

Oikawa preens.

“I told you to stop reading that bullshit, what is the matter with you?!” Hajime turns to the woman. The least he can do is attempt to smooth it over a bit. Someone should have warned her, nobody deserves crap like this. You say things like ‘Oikawa’s overdramatic’ and ‘he gets carried away and makes you so mortified that you want to chain cannonballs to your feet and jump in the Pacific’—but people don’t understand until they’re staring at Oikawa calmly picking flower petals off his shirt while making kissy faces at anyone foolish enough to make eye contact. People don’t get it, at all, until they are neck-deep in the _scene_ of it with _no clue_ how they got there.

“Look—” The word dies on his tongue. Shit. _Shit_.

She stares back at him, and Hajime watches as she tumbles over the line and firmly entrenches herself in rage. “You don’t even remember my name, do you?”

“I know her name,” Oikawa helpfully supplies. “Do you need a hint?”

“ _Shut up!_ ”

“Starts with Sa-”

“It does _not!_ ” The woman shrieks before stomping off.

There is an empty moment where everything is quiet, and Hajime seriously considers what he’s done to deserve being thrown into the middle of whatever Oikawa thinks he’s doing here. Then, their surroundings come roaring back to life.

Oikawa slings an arm over Hajime’s shoulder. “It’s so rude that you always refuse to learn their names. I can’t believe this is how you treat the people I care about. Cared about? When is the proper time to move to the past tense?”

Hajime flexes his jaw and clenches his fists before letting them relax. “You are… You are the worst. The actual worst. Worst everything.”

“I met her three weeks ago and she’s already asked me to cancel on you _and_ ditch practice, and you would not _believe_ how much she whined at me for going home for the weekend without telling her first. Girls who want to be top pick competing with team sports, college careers, and life-long friends don’t deserve my best.” A dangerous, sardonic grin crosses Oikawa’s face. “Now, I think we have one very important matter to address.”

Hajime sighs. It’s not enough for Oikawa to ruin his day, he’s going to go after the whole week.

“How did you know what the flower petals meant, Iwa-chan?”

He could drop out of college. Pack all his shit up, go back to Miyagi and join that neighborhood team Ukai plays with. That could be nice. Runs a large risk of random encounters with Oikawa, though. Opposite direction, then?

Or… Hajime wonders if he could make friends with Ushijima if he tries hard enough—that’d keep Oikawa away. “You think Ushiwaka has decent taste in movies?”

*** * ***

On the first day of summer break, another girl wrings her hands and watches the door to the gymnasium like a hawk, and this time— _this time_ when she stares at Hajime and starts purposefully walking toward him, he squares up his shoulders.

It could be that he’s so relieved he doesn’t have to take any more exams that everything else feels relaxed and manageable. Or, maybe it’s that there’s finally a few weeks to breathe before the balancing act between school and volleyball kicks back up. Hajime has some time to let all the knots in his shoulders and stomach unravel—but what he tells himself is that he wants to see what all the fuss is about.

*** * ***

“Wait, wait, _wait!_ ” Kuroo is laughing so hard he’s nearly folded in half, holding his face with both hands while his elbows rest on his knees. It wouldn’t be so traumatizing, except Kuroo is also currently wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips. It is not a look suited to squatting in the locker room. “She already broke up with you?”

Hajime is stubbornly staring up and away. “For fuck’s sake, Kuroo, put some pants on.”

“She dumped him so hard, poor Iwa-chan may never recover.” Oikawa forces a dramatic sigh and grins that vicious, unhinged sneer of his.  
  
Huh. Hajime hadn’t realized Oikawa had such a strong opinion about it. “It was all your fault anyway, asshole!”  
  
“How?” Oikawa blends a theatrical, offended wail through the word. “I was nothing but kind and polite to what’s-her-name.”  
  
Now that’s bold. Hajime yanks his shirt over his head and slams his locker shut. “You were screaming at me to, and I quote, ‘get rid of the harpy’ so we could go to bed.”  
  
“And?” Oikawa blinks. “I was tired, and it was _late_.”  
  
“You have no respect for boundaries.” Hajime will never admit how grateful he was for the disruption, he will take it to his grave. Seems there is little worse in the universe than trying to watch sappy, foreign dramas with subtitles while simultaneously trying to keep a handsy girl at least a foot away at all times. Christ, he still feels her fingers digging into his arm.  
  
“I do so! I gave you the whole afternoon _and_ evening to kiss and cuddle with your girlfriend! Besides, it’s not like I was interrupting anything. You didn’t even get your hands up her top.”  
  
“I thought she dumped you because you were refusing to introduce her to your ‘mysterious and probably make-believe roommate?’” Sawamura asks, finger quotes to go with.  
  
Oikawa pretends not to hear the question, so Hajime gleefully informs the room, “Other way around, _that one_ wasn’t me.”  
  
Hajime’s favorite teammate, the upperclassman who could dig a meteor and has never fallen victim to Oikawa’s bullshit glances between the two of them and nods a sharp jerk to Kuroo. “Sorry, bro, I get what you mean, now.”  
  
“Et tu, Kuro-chan?” Oikawa slaps a hand to his bare chest and sinks to the bench near his locker. A beat passes. He snarls. _“Yes_ , I know what it means!”  
  
Kuroo stage-whispers to no one in particular, “Is he hitting on me? Doesn’t he only do that cutesy shit with people he thinks he has a shot in bed with, like Iwaizumi?” A laugh. “Oi! Your shirt’s inside out, _Iwa-chan!_ And backward.”  
  
Hajime waves a middle finger in the air and steadfastly ignores the tag bouncing into his line of sight under his nose as he storms out of the locker room. Somewhere behind him, Oikawa is shrieking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With purpose and deliberation, Hajime looks Sawamura in the eye and flips the page of his textbook.
> 
> “Fine. Have it your way. Marry the girl who survived meeting Oikawa once.” Sawamura wags a finger across the table. “See what happens when you have such low standards.”

It’s a beautiful day: nice and sunny. Quiet. Still.  
  
Hajime’s chilling at the park, sitting cross-legged in the grass with a bowl of sugary cereal masquerading as fruit-flavored balanced on one knee. He twirls a spoon through his fingers in lazy circles. Between his shirt, hoodie, and jacket he has too many layers on, but there’s nothing to do about it. Tie-dyed clouds roll overhead in brilliant swirls of pink and orange, the breeze soothes the skin of his face and neck. The sun beats down, scorching the grass a sickly, yellowy green. Across the lawn boasting flavors like tofu and popcorn is an ice cream stand—he can’t figure out if he wants some or not.  
  
Several meters away, Oikawa stands barefoot with his back to Hajime, little neon-green antenna bobbing carelessly from a headband and silvery cape fluttering behind him. Another handful of meters away, a hoard of ravenous schoolgirls approaches with outstretched arms and jerky steps. They moan. Slowly, Oikawa backs away from the girls with long, deliberate steps.  
  
“Why aren’t you helping, Iwa-chan?!”  
  
“Don’t worry, I’m gonna in a minute.” Hajime’s not concerned. Oikawa and girls is something that always manages to work itself out, he rarely needs to intervene. A roar presses in on them from all sides. “See? Helping.”  
  
“Is that Sugawara?” Oikawa waves to a rapidly approaching shadow. “Hey, Suga-chan! Liking your new look!”  
  
It’s definitely Sugawara. He’s dressed up as a T-Rex, standing nine meters tall right behind the fangirl zombies. He laughs, and it comes out as another deafening roar.  
  
“Why him?” Oikawa asks.  
  
“Don’t know. Ushiwaka is so obvious, and Sugawara seems like the kind of guy who’d enjoy this.” Hajime’s only met the guy twice but something about that puckish smile and diabolically accurate serve of his just _screams_ fangirl gobbler.  
  
Sugawara roars again, takes a thunderous step, and makes a chomp at the fangirl hoard. Oikawa appears behind Hajime and shrieks in his ear, cowering with each step the girls take. Sugawara manages to nab a couple with his next attempt.  
  
“This seems like not the greatest idea, Iwa-chan!”  
  
Oikawa’s arms wrap around Hajime’s neck, his face buried in the crook of his right elbow, breath warm against Hajime’s skin. Knees are digging into his hips. “Sugazilla is the best idea ever, you dumbshit.”  
  
The laughter erupting from Oikawa is obnoxiously loud… It rumbles his back and pierces his ears and Hajime squeezes his eyes shut before blinking awake to Oikawa wheezing against his neck.  
  
“Sugazilla?!”  
  
The two of them are cocooned in the sheets together. Hajime’s not quite caught up with it yet, but he’s comfortable and warm—feels content when Oikawa’s laughter presses closer even though his arms and elbows are jabbing him in the back. He doesn’t care to be awake. His eyes drift shut with a _shh_ as he burrows deeper in the sheets, chasing his dream.

* * *

Three days later, Oikawa is still laughing about _Sugazilla versus the Fangirls_. Hajime will never admit it, but he would totally watch that movie.

They’re tossing around a volleyball in the park three blocks from their apartment. It’s hot as hell but there’s enough shade to make it bearable. Oikawa managed to round up both Kuroo and Hanamaki despite it being two in the afternoon and giving them no warning. Everyone has better things to do, Hajime is sure of it, but Oikawa and Kuroo thoroughly depend on their athletic performance for their success at Nittaidai and Hanamaki somehow wound up studying art, of all things, at a school Hajime suspects isn’t actually accredited. Since Hajime is the only one of them with an academic career to worry about, he decides not to mention it.

Oikawa bumps a pass to Hanamaki. “I’m so bummed Iwa-chan can’t draw. I’d kill to know what Sugazilla looks like in his head.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, I only remember Sugawara’s head on Godzilla’s body.” Hajime gave up trying to get them onto another topic of conversation an hour ago. Sugawara was enough of a nuisance in high school that they’re enjoying the lighthearted mockery. “I don’t know how to describe it any better.”

Amused questions follow: ‘Okay, but did he breathe fire?’; ‘How tall was he?’; and ‘Wait, did he conquer the zombie girls?’

“You know, they say dreams are prophetic.” Oikawa’s head tilts to the side. “If you’d like we can get you an appointment with an analyst—maybe they can help you with all these _issues_.”

Hajime supposes there’s a multitude of reactions he could have. After considering calling Oikawa an asshole; cuffing Hanamaki in the ear; kicking Kuroo’s legs out from under him; or walking away, he finally settles on, “No?”

 _“Mmhm,”_ Oikawa hums. “Hold that thought for one second, I just saw Sasaki over that way and I have to go tell her it’s over real quick.”

Hajime is beyond baffled by Oikawa’s love life by this point. This time, he settles on, “Why?”

“I’m about sixty-two percent sure she’s an exhibitionist and it turns out I’m risk-averse.”

Kuroo snorts. “I knew buying you that calendar would turn out to be an amazing idea.”

“Is this the first time you’re doing the dumping?” Hajime wonders. It must be; Oikawa’s practically vibrating with anticipation.

“It is, and thanks for noticing! Let’s go out to celebrate later.” Oikawa smacks a loud, dramatic kiss on Hajime’s cheek before running away with a shout of, “Oh, Sasaki-san!” floating behind him on the wind.

There’s always an absence of sound in the moment after Oikawa leaves. Hajime relaxes into it. He ignores Kuroo and Hanamaki flailing their arms at each other. The sun shines down on his face and warms his skin, he savors the late summer breeze…

“What do you _mean_ you’re not an affectionate person?!” The woman shrieks, the sharpness of her outrage over Oikawa’s blatant lies clear and cutting, chasing birds from the trees. Oikawa could have at least chosen a _plausible_ lie, what the hell?

Hajime turns around and walks in the other direction. Kuroo and Hanamaki can fend for themselves.

 _‘Traitor!’_ His phone helpfully supplies. Hajime picks up the pace.

He doesn’t make it far before Oikawa catches up, girl long abandoned, one hand fisted in Kuroo’s shirt dragging him along while Kuroo does the same to Hanamaki. The procession is like a demented exercise in keeping track of your buddy in elementary school. Hanamaki shrugs off Kuroo’s grip and throws his arms over Oikawa and Hajime’s shoulders. Hajime dips away; Hanamaki grabs Kuroo instead. “I missed you guys. So many misplaced emotions. So much excitement.”

“You are not invited to come to visit more often.” Hajime wants to make it clear. It is entirely too possible that Hanamaki will wind up living on their couch, and then it’s only a matter of time before Matsukawa shows up, too. For a moment, he has a brief, terrifying vision of the entire Seijou team crammed into their tiny one-bedroom apartment. He’d have to move—worse, he’d have to learn to do his own laundry.

Hanamaki reaches for one of Kuroo’s spikes with his pointer finger and thumb. Kuroo jerks away and adopts an uneasy glare. “Have I mentioned that I find your hair to be utterly inspiring? Like a crashing wave… Can I draw you sometime?”

“Do I want to understand?” Kuroo asks.

Hajime gladly fields that one. “I wouldn’t.”

At the same moment, Oikawa scoffs. “I thought I was your new model! My hair is way better. Scored a ninety-eight, you know”

“From _you._ It doesn’t count if you give that score to yourself.”

“Says who?!”

“We haven’t gotten to my hair.” Kuroo rubs his palms together and considers the matter for a solid thirty seconds of awkward silence. He sighs, dejected. “Yeah, it’s probably only about an eighty-two or something. Dammit.”  
  
Even Hanamaki doesn’t know how to respond and instead waves toward a sign for the train station. Kuroo excuses himself right after and Hajime allows Oikawa to not-so-subtly herd them toward a shop that serves shaved ice.  
  
“What was that about, with Sasaki?” Hajime asks. He gets his wallet out of his pocket. “That seemed nuts, even for you.”  
  
Oikawa groans. “It’s so hard to turn them down once they’re staring at you all expectant and excited. I can’t do it, and then I’m left trying to figure out the fastest way to get rid of someone I don’t click with.”  
  
“Two strawberry.” Hajime pays for both and shoves Oikawa’s bowl into his hands. It’s unbelievable how Oikawa seems to explode whenever the girlfriend of the week crosses the line and becomes too demanding of him to be something he’s not. “You are such an asshole.”  
  
“Don’t worry, Iwa-chan. If you work hard at the gym and maybe let me do something about your eyebrows, I’m sure you’ll be cursed with the dilemma of how to say ‘no,’ too.”

“Try and I’ll shave your head.” Hajime could pull it off easily enough.

Oikawa shoots him a dirty look and puts an extra step between them.

Once the treats are devoured, they start wandering in the direction of home. The afternoon heat is still high enough that Hajime would almost prefer to stay in the next place with air conditioning, regardless of what it is. He could deal with living in a shoe store or a restaurant for a couple of days. It couldn’t possibly be crazier than living with Oikawa, right?

A passing girl smiles at Oikawa before blushing and looking away.

“Are you actually getting anything out of it? With the girls?” Hajime can’t help but be curious. Why does Oikawa subject himself to so much idiocy?

“This last one wasn’t my fault. She tricked me. One minute we’re friends getting coffee and then the next the coffee means it’s a date? How does that work? And then, yeah, the staring and the part where it’s impossible to say ‘no.’”

Hajime shrugs. He can’t figure this shit out, either.

They go another block before Oikawa slows his pace and gives Hajime a long, searching look. “At first I thought it was something I should practice. You know, dating. I’m not great with romance—”

“Obviously.”

“Shut _up,_ nobody’s asking you.” Oikawa huffs. “This part is serious.”

Hajime should have realized. “Alright.”

“I keep trying, like practice, but every time it feels… like an itch, but scratching it doesn’t make it go away. It just makes it worse, makes me more aware that I’m itchy.” Oikawa frowns. “I don’t think that makes sense.”

“You never make much sense, but I get what you mean. I feel that way, too, sometimes.” Except for Hajime it’s more he expects he should be itchy, and when he goes to scratch everything gets disorganized and off-kilter. Every time he’s left picking at nothing in particular until he’s bloody and sore. He doesn’t know how to express the distinction but Oikawa seems happy enough to let the conversation fizzle.

* * *

Summer break without two specific sets of full-time activities to occupy it is a disquieting thing. The weeks glide by, nothing exciting or impressive about them. Hanamaki comes out a couple more times, Matsukawa never makes it. Kuroo and Oikawa spend every Sunday without fail running through the absurdly long lists they’ve made up to judge themselves on—Hajime starts spending Sunday afternoons anywhere other than his apartment, there’s a limit to how much he’s willing to put up with from those two whack-jobs.

September feels wasted. Sure, Hajime has some work he’s expected to do to prepare for the new term, but there’s hardly anything time-consuming. They have biweekly training camps for volleyball, but even that seems too relaxed. Hajime’s not even in the rigorous groups. Oikawa is, he needs meaningful practice with the starters—but Hajime’s firmly on the bench and will be for the rest of the year. A slow, grudging acceptance of it has seeped into his bones.

What the hell is this, they’ve never had a _break_ during break. Oikawa and Kuroo, at least, seem to be living it up.

Hajime doesn’t know where Kuroo dragged Oikawa off to last night, or why he woke up to a beautiful—and final—Thursday morning of summer break with thirty-seven text messages. They start pretty typically: just Oikawa sending little anecdotes of things he thinks are funny and a couple of pictures—but they become increasingly unintelligible and morose right up until four in the morning when they abruptly stop. The last one is nothing more than a string of sad and crying emojis and then his full name repeated six times. Hopefully, Oikawa has the hangover from hell; Hajime will throw a _fit_ if he did that sober.

Kuroo drags Oikawa home at two in the afternoon looking like he’s been hit by a truck and can’t comprehend how he’s still living afterward. His face is blotchy and red, eyelids swollen, and he’s trying not to let on how he’s breathing through his mouth, about to collapse. Oikawa stands in front of the fridge, head tilted to the side, and rips yesterday’s page off the calendar stuck to the door.

“Emulous,” Oikawa says. _“Great.”_

“Are you okay?” It slips out before Hajime can consider how Oikawa will respond to such a broad question. His eyes are almost vacant, he’s so spaced out.

“Fine,” Oikawa mutters before shuffling to the bedroom and all but slamming the door shut. He’s muttering too low to hear clearly, but Hajime gets the gist since every other word out of Oikawa’s mouth seems to be, ‘ _Why?!_ _’_

Kuroo shifts his weight side-to-side. Guilty, Hajime decides, Kuroo looks guilty.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing, he did it all on his own.” Kuroo holds both hands up in surrender, and scratch that, Kuroo looks like he’s fighting the battle of his life not bursting into laughter. “Sorry, man, I’ve been sworn to secrecy. Please let me know the instant he tells you, I need someone in my daily life I can laugh about that shit with. You really should have come out with us.”

“—So _stupid!_ ” Oikawa wails from the bedroom. There’s a dull thump, a muffled groan, and then silence.

Hajime gives Kuroo a cautious nod before shoving him back out the door.

He’s nice enough to fill a glass with water before he slides the bedroom door open and settles on the floor. Oikawa’s legs are bent at the knees, pillow held to his face with both arms to muffle the terrible, screeching noise he’s making. Hajime considers yanking the pillow away and dumping the glass of water over Oikawa’s head—he’s just not sure it’d make him stop.

“What’d you do?” He pokes Oikawa in the side, right under his ribs.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Oikawa groans through the pillow. “Please drop it.”

This is unusual for Oikawa. No matter how stupid or outlandish his escapades are, he usually can’t wait to tell Hajime all about them. Embarrassment isn’t something that registers in hindsight most of the time. He _looks_ fine—as fine as he can wearing yesterday’s wrinkled clothes and smelling a bit like a garbage disposal, anyway.

It’s worrisome, but Hajime doesn’t want to argue. If Oikawa wants to talk about it, he’s going to talk about it, and if he doesn’t, well… “Okay. Here, I brought you water.”

The pillow lands behind Oikawa’s head; he reaches out for the glass. Hajime watches in amusement as Oikawa pours the entire thing straight over his face. Silence falls as water drips from Oikawa’s earlobes until the glass clatters to the floor. Hajime’s socks soak up some of the water before he thinks to scoot back.

“I’m not cleaning this up.” Doesn’t matter that Hajime thought of doing the same—he restrained himself in the end.

“Just shut up and get me a towel.” Oikawa blinks the water out of his eyes. “And something to drink would be nice.”

* * *

When classes start back up, most of Hajime’s routine goes back to normal.

Nittaidai is satisfied that Hajime does indeed know how to read and comprehend most literature, and sets him the task of proving he also knows how to write; the rest of his classes stay the same. He still wakes up early to go running and Oikawa keeps hogging the bathroom for a solid hour every night. Their regular practices trudge on, same as they did during summer break and over the spring term. Three days a week Oikawa and Hajime walk home together at the end of the day, the other two Hajime stays late and prays that Oikawa won’t get hungry enough to try making pancakes again.

Hajime rolls his shoulders and prepares himself. He opens the door—no smoke, excellent sign—and dumps his unreasonably full book bag on the floor.

“Get out!” Oikawa shouts.

A glance around the kitchen and living room doesn’t show anything out of the ordinary. “No?”

“You’re early, I wasn’t prepared! You have to go back outside, count to ten, and then come back in.”

Hajime doesn’t understand—he’s over an hour late. He offers a compromise. “I’ll turn around and close my eyes.”

Oikawa claps his hands. “Deal! Out loud, if you please.”

Hajime’s curious enough to count. There some rustling and the scrape of their table being dragged over the floor. When Hajime reaches ten, Oikawa squeals.

It takes a moment for Hajime to absorb the scene in front of him. There’s Oikawa, laying on the floor kicking his legs in the air. A monstrous green stuffed toy with spikes running all along the top bounces against his chest. The thing must be a meter and a half tall. It looks like… The moment Hajime understands his legs fold beneath him.

“Help me, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa screeches. “Sugazilla ate all the fangirls and now he’s come after me!”

Hajime’s dying. He’s going to choke to death laughing at the face Oikawa’s making as he writhes underneath the massive Godzilla plushie and everyone’s going to know about it. Oikawa’s the sort of asshole who’d put that on his tombstone. It’s the old-school Godzilla, too, the first one. The best one. With trembling hands, Hajime manages to get his phone out of his pocket and mashes the camera shutter icon to get as many pictures as possible. God, he hopes at least one of them turns out good, he’s going to make it Oikawa’s profile picture on _everything_.

“It’s because I’m so beautiful!” Oikawa howls. “The reciprocal of a hundred screaming women in yukata!”

“I know better, I can’t believe I was so stupid,” Hajime mutters. “Why wasn’t I ready to record? Wait—reciprocal?”

Oikawa stops his squirming long enough for a toothy grin. “It’s the word of the day! It means equal. Come on, commit to bettering your vocabulary.”

Hajime checks the calendar on the off chance he’s crazy or remembering wrong. Nope. “So close, dummy. Where the hell did you find that thing, anyway?”

“The internet, of course.” Oikawa sits up and leans an elbow on the couch cushion. “They have all sorts of things for lonely, immature men.”

“Ah, that explains how you knew exactly where to look.”

Somewhere on Oikawa’s screwed up face is a monstrous pout. “No fair, I’m trying to be nice, and you come swinging at me.”

“Uh-huh. Not that this isn’t the greatest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, but get on with your ulterior motive, please.”

“I’m so offended.” Oikawa pries himself out from under the plushie and props it up on the sofa. “You seemed stressed about the new term. I just thought some fun would be welcome, but you still don’t appreciate me at all.”

This is too suspicious. “Seriously, what do you want?”

“Like I said, you seemed stressed, so I bought you a toy and put on a show. Now, next time I feel like garbage you’ll have to do the same. It’s the perfect plan to get some blackmail material.”

At first, Hajime’s trying to decide if he believes him—but then Oikawa starts to fidget and Hajime’s thoughtful stare morphs into a game of chicken.

Oikawa mutters. “Fine. Maybe I’m stressed, too, and I want to goof around with my favorite person before we have to get back to the real world.”

Guilt for prying washes over him; he should have left it alone. Hajime drops on the couch next to Oikawa, grabs the plushie, and hugs it to his chest while he fires off fifteen pictures to Sawamura because he can be trusted to take Hajime’s side, unlike Kuroo or Hanamaki. “Holy hell, this is so soft. I assume you’re already set on calling it Sugazilla forever?”

A fervent nod.

The phone chirps, a single question mark back in reply, and Hajime makes sure to mention, _‘It’s named after your boy Sugawara.’_

 _‘Is this about the fangirls dream?’_ Sawamura asks, and Hajime casually leans over to grab a magazine off the table and backhands Oikawa’s chest with it. The paper makes a satisfying _thwap_. A moment later, _‘Suga says rawr.’_

“Hand me my laptop, will you?”

Oikawa yanks the magazine away and shoots a baleful glare at Hajime. After a moment, he passes the computer over.

Hajime has to relinquish his hold on Sugazilla, so he sets it on the floor between his legs. After a moment of debate, he swipes his finger over the trackpad a couple of times and pulls up the reading he’d meant to do yesterday. He’ll change Oikawa’s profile pictures later when he’s not around to try and stop him. “Hey, I’m sorry you’re having a shitty week, too, but we’ve got a game Friday, so snap out of it.”

“Likewise.” The basket of burned DVDs slides out from underneath the end table. Oikawa thumbs through the cases before making his selection.

Hajime doesn’t intend to pay the game much mind. They’ve seen everything in the basket at least twice by now, but his attention keeps drifting to Oikawa huddled on the floor, so close his side presses against Hajime’s leg. He mouths the plays along with the action, whispers them into his forearms crossed over his knees.

* * *

Friday’s game draws a crowd of spectators that puts the spring and summer bouts to shame. Now that the rookies have had a chance to settle in, everyone wants their chance to see the team in action and start pondering the question of how far they’ll advance in the Intercollegiate. Nittaidai is ravenous for champions.

At least over the summer Hajime got to play even if it was nothing but practice matches. Now, half-way through a nail-biter of a first set, Hajime’s still in his track pants and Oikawa fidgets court-side in the warm-up box. A card flashes in the head coach’s hand. Oikawa’s reaching out before he’s anywhere near close enough to grab it. It’s crazy to see Oikawa subbed in as a pinch server. He’s full of nervous energy, says he feels good—nice and warmed up, ready to make his debut—but Hajime doesn’t buy it.

The toss is perfect, Oikawa’s jump is well-timed and his palm slamming the ball booms through the gymnasium. Hajime’s seen Oikawa perform this exact serve a thousand times—the opponents never have time to process it before there’s a whistle and a point awarded.

This time, Hosei’s libero is under the ball in a flash. It bounds in a perfect arc toward their setter, and when Hajime blinks next, the ball has come crashing down to the floor. The whistle still blows, the point awarded, but Oikawa is the one flummoxed by the sheer speed and ferocity.

“Shit.”

The look on Oikawa’s face when he slumps back to the sidelines is uncomfortably familiar; the remnant of insecurities Hajime thought were long grown past. There’s a chorus of ‘nice serve!’ and ‘get ‘em next time!’ that only buries the knife deeper.

Oikawa’s teeth and fists clench so hard, it’s hard to guess where he’ll start bleeding first.

The weight of it is oppressive, it crushes him. Hajime pants with the realization that it’s real. They’re doing this; they’re starting over, all the way at the bottom.

* * *

On a rather dreary Thursday in mid-October, Hajime comes bolting out of the Library and crashes straight into a woman carrying her body weight in books, groaning like this is just another in a long line of upsetting events in her day. He helps her collect her things, buys her a coffee to make up for whatever his part in her terrible day is, and then, hours after she gives him her phone number he realizes, ‘ _Oh, this is how normal people meet each other._ _’_

Maeda Yui is smart, friendly, and enthusiastic. She did not flee in terror after meeting Oikawa once, and she willingly set foot in their apartment after meeting said aggravating roommate. This time— _this time_ it’s not going to catch on fire and explode within two weeks. Maybe. The thing is that Oikawa is someone who continually exceeds expectations, for better _and_ for worse. That they’ve gotten along so far is promising, though.

“So you’re saying that because she and Oikawa tolerate each other, you’re going to… what? Marry her?” Sawamura is less convinced.

The incomprehensible math problems in front of Hajime absolutely deserve how much he is glaring, but probably not for the right reasons. “You make it sound crazy.”

“It _is_ crazy?”

“I don’t think you’re understanding how much insanity that sewage drain of a human is capable of.”

Sawamura lets out a nervous laugh and leans back in his chair. “See, you say that—you say that _a lot_ , actually—but I just don’t think he’s that bad.”

Impossible. Sawamura is betraying him now? “He woke me up at two o’clock this morning trying to tweeze my eyebrows while I was sleeping.”

“Okay, that’s pretty weird.”

“He has no boundaries, no manners, no filter whatsoever. I haven’t picked the movie since we were fourteen. He threw flower petals in my face to con his girlfriend into breaking up with him because he was mad that _she_ was mad that he wasn’t paying enough attention to her. He opened a credit card in my name and used it to buy porn—I mean, he paid for it so it was actually fine, but still, who does that?”

Sawamura is making one of those faces that Hajime has learned to associate with suffering.

“I have more.”

“That’s alright,” Sawamura says, hands out in surrender. “But are we going to talk about how you changed his profile picture on the University message boards, his email, and all of his social media accounts to be that picture of him groping Sugazilla?”

Hajime snorts. That was funny.

“I’m just saying there’s some back and forth here.”

With purpose and deliberation, Hajime looks Sawamura in the eye and flips the page of his textbook.

“Fine. Have it your way. Marry the girl who survived meeting Oikawa once.” Sawamura wags a finger across the table. “See what happens when you have such low standards.”

It is a horrible prospect, actually, but he certainly can’t back down now. Hajime barely even knows this girl, what was he thinking waxing poetic about her to Sawamura? Damage control, then. “I never said I was going to marry her, she’s just nice is all.”

Sawamura clicks his tongue. “Hopefully you’ll also learn what happens when you use Oikawa as your yardstick despite saying you don’t want him involved.”

Hajime snaps his mouth shut and focuses on his math assignment.

* * *

Seijou misses their chance to go to Nationals again. Yahaba mentions it without fanfare, just a quick text between two others— _’Did you know_ _Kyoutani can set? He_ _’s terrible, but still…’_ then, _‘By the way, we lost at the qualifiers again,’_ and, _‘there are three volleyballs stuck up in the light fixtures in the gym and we can’t get them down, that ever happen to you?’_

Hajime gets it, he never wants to talk about that sort of thing either.

He’s not in the greatest mood before the news comes, and after is no improvement. There’s a dull, tense sensation Hajime can’t quite put his finger on—something like disappointment and failure for not leaving a better team to Yahaba. Thinking of Kyoutani and Yahaba wearing his and Oikawa’s old jerseys and losing, _again_ , is painful in a way Hajime can’t put into words.

Hajime tosses and turns that night and wakes up stressed after only a handful of hours of sleep. When he tries to roll over and pull the blankets over his head, Hajime can only get half his face covered. Oikawa somehow has every piece of bedding in the apartment tangled around his legs. He’s sleeping upside-down and sort of sideways across both their futons with his face planted straight in Hajime’s kneecap, shirt pulled half-way off so that only one arm and his neck are in the right holes. Hajime wishes this was the weirdest thing he’s woken up to. At least Oikawa’s toes aren’t wriggling against his ears.

Extracting himself is a process. It’s best to ease Oikawa away, or else he might latch on and refuse to let go. Once free of the clingy mess, Hajime stumbles to the bathroom and does his best to appear a functional human being. Moderately successful, he heads out for his Saturday morning run around the park.

In some ways, it feels like Hajime has nothing to show for a spring and summer of hard work. He tells himself over and over: this is how it is, it was like this the first year of high school, too. It’s too bad that he has a paper due Monday that he’s not finished with, along with some serious preparation he has to do for the lectures next week.

Hajime hadn’t understood Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s reluctance toward continuing with volleyball until the first time he sat a whole game out, warming the bench, stressed to hell and back over whether or not he can keep up this good student thing long enough to settle on some sort of a career. Now that he’s put words to it, there are awkward questions like, ‘ _can you even compete with these other wing spikers,_ _’_ and, ‘ _do you give a shit about your scholarship or not?_ _’_

Then, there is whatever is going on with Oikawa. He hasn’t been the same since Kuroo dragged his hungover ass home a few weeks ago. This is a new turmoil, one that Oikawa refuses to share or explain. Hajime said he’d drop it and he has, but it still nags him as Oikawa gets increasingly frustrated at practice, distant at home, and downright needy in his sleep.

It has a texture similar to Kyoutani’s frustration when he thinks about it—and with that in mind, Hajime pulls his phone from the band on his arm once he gets to his cooldown lap and taps out a question to Yahaba asking how he managed to become the only guy at Seijou who can make Mad Dog calm the fuck down.

 _‘Spell it out instead of trying to protect his feelings.’_ Is what he gets in reply. Hajime groans. A moment later, _‘How did you get Kunimi to be so cooperative at practice?’_

Yeah, Hajime can see how that’d be a tough one to figure out. ‘ _Give him extra time to warm up and stakes so it doesn_ _’t feel pointless. He likes defense.’_  
_  
_ Oikawa’s up by the time Hajime gets back home from his workout, slumped on the couch with a towel hanging over his head as he reads something for one of his classes. After getting himself into a presentable state instead of a sweaty, stinky mess, Hajime settles down next to him and rubs the towel over Oikawa’s head until he gets a jab in the ribs and Oikawa finally gets up to get dressed.

Hajime almost drops the rest of their routine and takes care of shopping on his own. He remembers this with startling clarity as he watches Oikawa make a show of stretching his arms over his head and arching his back in the canned goods aisle. A wide-eyed girl across from them is beet-red and staring straight at the few centimeters of skin where Oikawa’s shirt has ridden up. This must be what parents feel like when they have to drag their five-year-old along for all their errands. Actually, a five-year-old on a good day might be better behaved than Oikawa.

“Will you stop it?” Hajime reaches over and forces Oikawa’s arms back down one at a time. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

A wicked grin curls around Oikawa’s mouth. He sidles up close and throws his arms around Hajime’s neck. “Am I distracting you, Iwa-chan?”

The girl drops her basket. She stares at it as if contemplating whether it’s worth retrieving or not before she takes one last look at Oikawa and Hajime, snatches the basket from the floor, and flees the aisle. Hajime would feel bad for her if he wasn’t at least ten times more embarrassed than she is.

“Get off. Even I know this is a terrible way to pick up girls.”

Oikawa laughs and removes himself from Hajime’s personal space. He plucks Hajime’s phone from his hand as he goes and scrolls through their grocery list.

It’s with relatively few incidents—stretching, pouting, fluttering eyelashes aside—that Hajime finally reaches the checkout lane and shoves Oikawa toward the bags while he pays. Once they’re back out on the street, Hajime asks, “What’s your deal lately?”

Oikawa holds the paper bags tighter, clicks his tongue, and pretends he didn’t hear a word. He may as well be screaming that he still doesn’t want to talk about it.

Whatever this is, Hajime wonders if he’s doing the right thing ignoring it at least once a day. On the surface, Oikawa seems fine. He smiles, jokes, and has a chipper attitude—and it’s all such obvious bullshit but no one else here knows him well enough to tell. Pushing when they’ve never had to do that before feels weird. When Oikawa lies, Hajime usually lets him be, and if he doesn’t—if he calls him out on it—Oikawa will take it as a cue things have gone too far and stop.

In the end, Hajime doesn’t have it in him to fight over something that’s not doing any harm. “Fine. Leaving it alone. But I want it noted that I know you’re full of shit.”

There’s nothing more to say about it. Oikawa’s always been too stubborn for his own good, and he’s decided he doesn’t want to talk about it. Hajime could spend hours trying to convince him otherwise and not make so much as a dent in his resolve.

They put away their groceries in silence and Hajime leaves Oikawa to paw through their basket of discs from under the end table. “I’m going out. Try and remember you’re supposed to be a student, yeah? Don’t spend all day watching Itachiyama matches.”

“Fukurodani,” Oikawa mutters. He slides the disc he grabbed into the tray and retreats to the couch where he curls up next to Sugazilla.

“Again?” Oikawa is weirdly obsessed with Fukurodani’s games lately. “Whatever, you know what I mean. You going to be home for dinner?”

“No, I have plans.” Oikawa doesn’t elaborate.

The lull in the conversation stretches to a point that feels uncomfortable and foreign. Another oddity that Hajime doesn’t know how to handle.

“Okay.” Hajime waits another thirty seconds before he has to walk away or risk letting that little, nagging annoyance turn into anger. “Later.”

Oikawa never takes his eyes off the TV. “Yeah, later.”

Hajime can’t wrap his head around the awkwardness he feels when he pauses one last time before finally walking out the door. He feels dismissed, almost, shooed away by someone who’s always clamored for his attention.

The whole thing is backward. If Oikawa was seeing a girl, he’d brag about it. He’d be upfront if he were meeting Kuroo or Sawamura, or anyone else, really. What plans does he have that he doesn’t want Hajime to know about? Since when did Oikawa keep secrets like this?

He’s distracted throughout his walk to the little cafe where he’s supposed to meet Maeda.

She’s already there when he walks in the door, sitting by the window with her legs crossed, reading a paperback. Maeda stands when she notices him and gives him a cute little smile. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Hajime makes a waving motion before shoving his arm back to his side. They sit.

Now that he’s staring at her, he has no idea what to say or do. It’s not nerves making him feel jittery, like he’s had too much caffeine on an empty stomach, but something just as unpleasant.

“How’s volleyball going?” she asks. Her fingers drum against the book sitting on the table.

It’s the first question most people ask him. Hajime has been entrenched in the sport for over ten years, it’s an integral part of his life. It makes no sense for the innocent and perfectly reasonable question to flood him with annoyance.

“It’s fine.”

She gives him space to continue before prodding. “Just fine?”

Now Hajime is the one causing uncomfortable silences. It’s disorienting to be spun around and on the other side so quickly. He shrugs, trying to seem casual. “Not a lot going on right now. How are your classes?”

“They’re good.”

A pause. He’s supposed to ask a follow-up question, right?

“Why don’t you tell me about your day,” Maeda suggests.

“It’s been alright. Went for a run, did some errands. Kept Oikawa from flashing random girls in the grocery store. The usual.”

Maeda’s brows furrow. “Why would he be flashing girls at the grocery store?”

It is not appropriate to use his _have you_ met _Oikawa_ face on a girl he’s… dating, he supposes, but it comes out before he can stop it. Kuroo swears up and down it’s half _bitch, please,_ half constipation. Judging from Maeda’s reaction, Kuroo’s probably not far off. Hajime rushes to wipe the scowl from his face. “I wish that was the most inappropriate thing he’s done lately.”

He gets a polite giggle in response.

“Last week he rubbed glitter in my hair in the middle of campus and then tried to say it was for an art project. Idiot doesn’t even take art. I don’t think we _can_ take art, do they offer it here at all?”

“I know.”

Shit, Hajime is so bad at this. “I already told you that, didn’t I?”

“Um, no.” Maeda’s odd looks are edging into irritated territory. “I was there.”

“Oh, god, you were. I’m so sorry, I’m just distracted. Oikawa’s being weird and it’s screwing with my head.” Panic—he can’t stop running his mouth. He hasn’t even asked her if she wants anything, hasn’t offered to go get it from the counter for her. They’re just sitting here at a little table near the window with no drinks or food. Hajime hates feeling so incompetent, he can’t remember the coffee part of _let_ _’s get coffee together._

“Let me get you a drink. Or a cookie. Do you want a cookie? Cake?”

“I think I’m just going to go…” She trails off like she expects something from him.

“If you’re sure,” he says, and it’s immediately apparent that was also wrong from her thinning smile and the way her chair screeches against the floor as she stands to leave.

Hajime doesn’t have the patience for these little social niceties, but it still bothers him when he misses a cue. He’s already going over the last few pieces of the conversation, looking for where he screwed up this time. Everything would be so much easier if people would just speak their minds, like Oikawa used to before he became a ridiculous, brooding mess.

“—Tomorrow?”

There is no good way to ask her to repeat herself. Hajime knows this. He nods, mind racing to catch up long after she’s walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, no  
> They say he’s got to go  
> Go Su-ga-zilla  
> Yeaaaaaah
> 
> Any other Blue Oyster Cult fans? I'm only asking because I'm 99% sure that I'm the only person laughing right now.
> 
> Check out this amazing [Sugazilla art by @TheTiny_Thief](https://twitter.com/TheTiny_Thief/status/1360025823760236544)!
> 
> Next time: Things fall apart. Also, cowboy boots.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hajime indulges the dramatic flair he inherited from his mother and briefly fantasizes about seeing if there are visa requirements to go live at the research station in Antarctica. Oikawa could come with—maybe he’d get a kick out of being the undisputed volleyball champion of an entire continent for a while.

With something akin to dread, Hajime gets into position across the net from Oikawa, knees bent, ready to lunge to either side. To the right, Sawamura does the same. They’ve been at this for thirty minutes now and Hajime’s gotten a measly two digs. It reminds him of a saying he heard once in high school about the definition of insanity.  
  
Oikawa flubs his serve and sends it straight into the net. It’s not even close, doesn’t so much as touch the tape. He scowls at the ball bouncing back toward him.  
  
“I’m not a fan of this.” Sawamura’s rigid and frowning, so tense that he flinches at the squeak of sneakers against the flooring of the gym.  
  
Hajime agrees. He should have seen this coming.  
  
They’re at the end of a grueling practice, split up however they see fit to run drills. Hajime’s group started with a blocker and another guy across the net taking turns serving. Neither of them wanted to deal with this frayed, frantic version of Oikawa that can’t stand doing a proper stretch and will hit that ball until his fingers break, then a couple of times after that, too. It didn’t take long for their teammates to bail in favor of less volatile company.  
  
The ball sails into the air, the run-up is flawless. Oikawa kicks the floor with a vicious stomp and launches himself into the air. He comes down recklessly hard, little tremors echoing over the floorboards in a blatant disregard for restraint. The wince on Oikawa’s face when he lands is unmistakable; the wobble in his knee is plain to see for anyone who knows to look. The serve goes wide and lands out of bounds.  
  
Sawamura keeps glancing at Hajime as if to say, _‘this is your territory, no?’_ Hajime debates whether he should try talking some sense into Oikawa or drag the idiot off the court. A fresh ball raps against the floorboards in three rapid bursts. Oikawa makes another run-up and serves; this one clears the net and Hajime finally gets a third receive. Across the court, Oikawa _tsks_ and takes some of the weight off his right leg.  
  
“You know what? I’m done being nice about it.” Before he can second guess himself Hajime charges under the net, bends at the waist, and hoists Oikawa into a fireman’s carry.  
  
_“_ Put me _down!_ _”_  
  
Hajime ignores the screaming, squirming man-child slung over his shoulder, ignores the volleyballs littered all over the floor from the most melodramatic serve practice he’s ever seen in his life, and heads straight for the door. After a vicious kick almost nails him in the face, he adjusts his grip to better restrain Oikawa’s legs and shifts his weight so he can’t get as much leverage.  
  
“Gorilla! Ruffian!”  
  
And yeah, Hajime could do without the stares and whispers, and he could _definitely_ do without Kuroo’s wolf-whistle or the condom that hits him square in the forehead before gliding to the floor—but he’s not letting Oikawa wreck his knee in some crazy bout of self-depreciation. If Oikawa doesn’t like that, well, tough shit.  
  
Fortunately, the assistant coach is in charge of the last stretch of practice; he’s a bit young and still learning not to be a pushover. He takes a deep breath, shoulders back but still too soft to worry about. He’s not going to ream them out and that more than anything solidifies Hajime’s resolve to put an end to this garbage.  
  
“Yeah, I know, we’ll do our diving digs or laps around campus or thousand push-ups or whatever you want tomorrow. Today I’m taking this masochist home so we can put some ice on his knee and have a _chat_. Stop trying to pull my underwear up my ass, Shittykawa!”  
  
Distantly, a chorus of camera shutters click. Oikawa’s hands down the back of Hajime’s shorts is an image sure to torment him for the rest of his adult life.  
  
If Mizoguchi were here, Hajime’d be doing pull-ups and laps until sunset with Oikawa still hung over his shoulder. He’ll have to apologize to the coach later, and in front of everyone to boot. It does no good to be disrespectful, and it’s with that in mind that Hajime gives the coach a grateful nod and shouts “Sorry!” before hauling Oikawa from the gym.  
  
Outside, Oikawa stops struggling and switches tactics. His voice bellows. “Did you forget our safe word again, Iwa-chan, _I said aluminum!_ _”_  
  
“That’s not going to work.” It might, actually, but admitting it is suicide. “I’ll put you down once we’re off-campus.”  
  
The waistband of his shorts snaps against his skin twice before Oikawa finally lets himself be carried off.  
  
Hajime keeps to his word and barely refrains from dumping Oikawa straight on his ass once they’re a block away. The odd looks they’re getting take on a different uneasiness; Hajime realizes they’re both in their practice gear and don’t even have their bags. He debates going back for his keys and phone but Oikawa would just follow and Hajime feels like he made enough of an exit that having to go back and face all those people might actually kill him. Instead, Hajime wraps his fingers around Oikawa’s wrist and starts dragging him in the direction of home. It’s not too late, someone will be there to let them in.  
  
It only takes five minutes or so to hunt down the apartment manager, but it feels like much longer as Hajime prowls the building in his gym shorts and jersey with a resistant Oikawa in tow. He gives the man bows and thank yous on top of bows and thank yous, but as soon as the door closes behind them the last of his composure dissolves. Snapping has always seemed like a sudden, violent thing. This? This is different. It’s a mess of contradictions: a slow, manic burn focused both inward and out. His fist grips a wad of Oikawa’s practice jersey.  
  
“I thought we were past this shit.”  
  
Oikawa’s chin is up, defiant, but quivering.  
  
“I didn’t spend the last year of high school studying my ass off and sticking to a fucking _Olympic_ level of diet and exercise just so I could come here, _with you,_ and watch you self-destruct. Do you have any idea how much I miss ice cream, shit-head?! Do you have the faintest idea how many miles I ran at five in the morning listening to lectures I recorded on my phone? Do you realize what it took just to _be here?_ ”  
  
Oikawa’s half-way to a snarl when Hajime shoves him on top of Sugazilla to shut him up and then, a moment later, lunges after him. The plushie rocks beneath their weight.  
  
“I wish you would calm down, I’m _fine_. You are overreacting.” Oikawa’s not even trying to hide the crack in his voice or how hard he swallows the rest of what he wants to say back.  
  
Oikawa’s not fine. Hajime knows it just as sure as he knows that he isn’t, either—and he is _absolutely_ overreacting but he _doesn_ _’t give a shit_. This is a thing Oikawa does: he gets all tangled up in his head, second-guessing everything and drowning in insecurity, feeling like he’s not good enough no matter how hard he tries.  
  
Hajime’s willing to tolerate some level of it. Oikawa wants to mope around and be depressed? Fine. He wants to spend all his spare time watching game tape? Whatever. But Hajime draws the line _here._ They are not repeating their past mistakes, they will move forward. This may be fast and quick, too harsh and too eager to nip it in the bud, but Hajime’s not putting up with this garbage anymore and he will _throttle_ Oikawa until he understands that.  
  
“I know it sucks, but we’re not the strongest kids on the playground anymore! We have to start over.” And there it is, the sudden and radical reshaping of the world that Hajime’s been waiting for since graduating high school. His mouth goes bone-dry and he’s left staring down at Oikawa when he realizes _‘we’re starting over, we can be anything we want’._ His lungs burn something fierce from holding his breath, his eyes slip closed. The feel of Oikawa’s forehead settling against his is grounding for a vast, empty ten seconds before hesitation lurches through him. Hajime has to wrench himself across the room. It’s a cruel parody of the first time he had to bodily pull Oikawa back from the brink.  
  
Whatever this is, he can’t deal with it. He can’t cope with that half-formed thought or the abstract longing zipping through his veins. He retreats to the kitchen and grips the counter until his fingers go numb. Once his muscles stop twitching, he grabs the ice pack they keep in the freezer.  
  
“Do your cooldown and see to your knee.” Hajime drops the ice pack in Oikawa’s lap, yanks his shoes off his feet, and drops them at the door on his way out. “And fucking vacuum.”  
  
Hajime’s not sure how long he sits on the front step of their building. Could be hours, from how far the sun sinks and how many people walk by with vaguely sympathetic looks or whispered questions. Hajime’s not used to drawing so much attention, Oikawa’s always the one causing a scene.  
  
“You look—well, about how I expected to find you since I have your keys, your wallet, and your clothes.” Sawamura the hero has appeared in front of Hajime in his hour of need with all his crap in tow. He pulls two of the straps slung across his chest over his head and hands them over.  
  
“You’re a saint. Want a new best friend? ‘Cause I’m considering trading up.”  
  
“About that...” Sawamura shifts his weight and glances off to the side. “Everything okay with Oikawa?”  
  
“Oikawa? You mean the lunatic I’m considering leaving tied up on some train tracks? That Oikawa? He’s doing terribly and acting like an asshole with no regard for his health or personal safety.”  
  
“Yeah, I know what that’s like.” At Hajime’s unimpressed glare, Sawamura snorts. “Have you forgotten the psychos I had on my team? You may have Oikawa, but I had _four_ over-enthusiastic monsters to deal with.”  
  
At once, the need to talk with someone who didn’t witness it first-hand rams Hajime, hard. Sawamura’s always felt like a bit of a kindred spirit—like if Hajime’d ever lost his shit back in high school and stopped trying to talk sense into Oikawa, at least Kageyama’d have someone to keep him from escalating the animosity beyond reach.  
  
“It’s not over-enthusiasm, not really.” He says it to test the waters. The white-hot sear of betrayal he’s expecting never comes; its absence makes it easier to elaborate. “He’s determined. Wants to prove that he’s capable of being the best. He wants to _be_ the best someday, and someday soon. He’s willing to work hard for that, but sometimes he forgets that he can’t brute-force his way there. And… I guess sometimes both of us forget that things don’t magically happen just because we want them to.”  
  
Sawamura quietly watches the people meandering by, arms crossed over his chest. He glances back at Hajime then seems to realize this will be easier if he doesn’t stare; he shifts his body to be angled away and watches the upper floors of the building across the street instead. “A drive like that sounds kind of admirable.”  
  
Hajime supposes it is, but it’s also stupid as hell and going to ruin everything Oikawa’s working so hard for if he can’t get control over it. “Oikawa came here for me, you know. We lost some opportunities after washing out of the Interhigh, sure, but there were still some pretty big fish. We applied… everywhere. Threw all our responses in this big-ass basket at Oikawa’s house and said we’d go through them together—but one day I came over and he had the letters scattered all over his room, and he said we were going to Nittaidai.”  
  
“I’m surprised you let him get away with it.” Sawamura keeps his voice even and free of judgment. It helps.  
  
“It was the best choice for us, together. I worked really hard to make sure we’d have some good options.” Hajime runs his thumb over the strap of his book bag and holds back the part of him that wants to admit that he’s not even sorry for how selfish it was. He knew the letters should have stayed with him, that he should have insisted they look through them together and made sure Oikawa didn’t take anything less than the best he could have.  
  
He shouldn’t say this next part, either—shouldn’t give it weight or let it be real—but there’s no one around who will understand it more than Sawamura. “It’s your fault, you know. He wants to pull a Karasuno. Take the next four years and build something unstoppable.”  
  
“Hey, blame Kageyama and Hinata for Karasuno, they’re the ones who blew everything up. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted my ticket to Nationals, too, but they were a whole other level. Good grief, I’ve never met more competitive people in my life.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Hajime says quietly, hoping Sawamura doesn’t hear. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “How did you rein in your monsters?”  
  
“We drugged their sports drinks.”  
  
Whiplash would be too generous a word for what Hajime does to his neck as he jerks his head around to gawk at Sawamura.  
  
“Kidding. We kind of gave up after a while, but I wouldn’t have been so lax about it if there’d been an injury. They knew it, too, so they mostly kept in line.”  
  
Hajime stands and lifts the bags. “I seriously appreciate you bringing our stuff out. Thank you.”  
  
“Yeah, any time. Let me know if I can do anything.” Sawamura doesn’t press—just waves and goes on his way.  
  
With a sigh, Hajime heads back inside.  
  
Oikawa lies on the floor, eyes closed and legs up on the couch, ice pack secured to his knee with an ace bandage. He looks to have calmed down; he vacuumed and lined up his shoes. Hajime’s go right next to them before he sits cross-legged on the floor and rests his head against Oikawa’s other leg, feeling calmer, too.  
  
Hajime’s palms rub up and down against his shorts. “We are not good at being patient, I think.”  
  
“We’re not good at lots of things.” Oikawa’s teeth press into his bottom lip.  
  
“But we are fantastic at keeping the status quo.” Hajime doesn’t mean to say it—he’s not even sure he used the phrase correctly, _fuck that stupid calendar._  
  
He lets his eyes drift closed. The possibilities swarm. They press in, smother him, make it hard to breathe. There is no longer a little town in Miyagi full of family and friends that already know and understand him. Here, in the vastness of Tokyo, there are no expectations or predetermined answers. There are only questions.

*** * ***

Years in the future, when Hajime is a bonafide adult with a job and a house and the ability to do his own laundry, he will make sure the record reflects that despite all the addendums he has to tack on, he was right. Maeda Yui is smart, friendly, enthusiastic—and that’s as far as he can get without clarifying because Hajime has never been so distressed in his life. He can’t figure out which is worse: enduring to give her what feels like a fair shot or pulling an Oikawa and trying to end things as quickly as possible.

They’re spending a couple of hours together at his place. The atmosphere started tense, but the presence of the TV means there’s less pressure to be engaging. Hajime’s crossed arms and laser-focus on the TV is probably off-putting, but Maeda is nice enough not to mention it. After a while, she settles into a similar posture. Every few minutes she comments on the show they’re watching—some silly competition she’s fond of that Hajime’s never heard of before.

Hajime tries to pay attention, but he’s bored and distracted. There shouldn’t be so much drama. He’s making a big deal out of nothing and he knows it, but he’s tired of being uncomfortable. Trying to balance school, volleyball, dating, _and_ Oikawa is driving him crazy.

It’s _stressful_ , and another in a long line of annoyances—a little whisper has started to accompany them, wondering which part is broken. This is all fairly usual stuff, all things considered, and the rest of the world manages to deal with it just fine. Hajime’s afraid to think about it for too long or he might conclude that he’s the problem and he doesn’t want to consider the question that will come after: is it fixable?

No wonder Oikawa is so terrible at this. It requires an unachievable level of organization and tact. Hajime indulges the dramatic flair he inherited from his mother and briefly fantasizes about seeing if there are visa requirements to go live at the research station in Antarctica. Oikawa could come with—maybe he’d get a kick out of being the undisputed volleyball champion of an entire continent for a while.

As if the mere thought of Oikawa has summoned him, he arrives right as Maeda’s show comes back from commercial break. The door bangs against the wall; Oikawa comes crashing through in a flurry of chaos and flailing limbs. He glances between Hajime and Maeda while he unlaces his shoes, then saunters through the kitchen and wedges himself right between them on the sofa.

In a snotty, dismissive voice Oikawa says, “I thought we agreed, no threesomes.”

It would be overreacting for Hajime to threaten Oikawa with his baseball bat, but the temptation is fierce. It’s not propped against the couch, though and he can’t exactly tear around searching when Oikawa and Maeda are both staring like it’s somehow _his_ job to explain this.

After great consideration of all his options, Hajime smacks Oikawa in the chest and growls, “ _What_ is the matter with you?”

Oikawa shrugs. “I am a shining beacon of greatness, thank you very much. And I distinctly remember the phrase ‘no threesomes.’”

“Uh…” There’s nothing else Hajime can think to say, he’s been trying to repress that conversation since second year at Seijou.

When the topic stalls too long for Oikawa’s liking he huffs and makes a show of examining his fingernails while regaling Maeda with a play-by-play of _the flower incident_ instead. He crosses one leg over the other, leaning a bit into Maeda’s space as he gestures wildly along with embellishments meant to depict him as a selfless hero rather than a raging lunatic.

Maeda, at least, seems to understand that it’s best to just let Oikawa get it out of his system instead of trying to engage in the conversation. She stays quiet, listening to Oikawa’s nonsense or lost in thoughts of her own, Hajime has no idea. Maybe she doesn’t feel the need to talk when Oikawa’s already filling the silence. After considering it another moment, Hajime realizes that she probably tries to start so many conversations because he never has anything to say when they’re together. That’s not a great sign.

Hajime leans his head back. Maybe if he falls asleep they’ll both leave.

“Are you feeling okay, Iwaizumi-kun?”

 _‘Not really,’_ is all Hajime can think, but saying it is out of the question. Maeda doesn’t need to know that he’s got a gurgling feeling like indigestion, and Oikawa definitely can’t be allowed to find out he’s getting to him. Hajime grunts. Hopefully, it sounds enough like ‘fine.’

“He’s just tired,” Oikawa says in that rotten way of his where he refuses to read the room. “Spent half of last night shuffling around and kicking in his sleep. After a while, I started kicking back.”  
  
“Liar.” Hajime would normally have a comeback, but it doesn’t feel worth the effort.

“Maybe we need to take turns on the couch or get a barrier for between our futons to avoid any unfortunate migration in the night.”

“And this keeps getting better and better,” Maeda says.

“Not this again.” Hajime sighs. Why is he always the one catching shit for this? Oikawa’s the one who can’t keep his hands to himself. A headache starts pulsing in a band across Hajime’s forehead.  
  
“Really? Again?” Maeda asks, and it sounds more like a challenge than anything else.

Hajime is immediately defensive. He leans forward and uses one hand to pin Oikawa against the back of the couch so he can’t flail about so much. “Hey, if you want to try to control Oikawa’s sleeping habits, be my guest, but trust me it is not as easy as you think. Sometimes you wake up and he’s just on top of you.”  
  
The instant it’s out of his mouth Hajime hears how bad it sounds, and there is… there is no fixing it.

Maeda stares, open-mouthed and baffled. Her eyes trace a line back and forth between him and Oikawa. She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something before snapping it shut again. The living room is too still. After another tense handful of seconds, she stands up and asks, “Can I have a word?” With an uneasy glance at Oikawa, she adds, “In private.”

There is no immediately obvious way to diffuse the situation. Sure, right now it’s about Oikawa not staying in his own bed. Next week she’ll catch Hajime napping against his shoulder during a movie or think it’s weird they sometimes share a blanket while they study together on the couch. She’ll get upset that only Oikawa is allowed to call him anything other than Iwaizumi and then, the next time Oikawa is around, Hajime will accidentally call him Tooru because _of course_ he will. It doesn’t happen often—they’re nickname people—but there are occasions every now and then.

Trying to explain any of these things is exhausting. Hajime wants back the part of Miyagi that understood and accepted the oddities of his friendship with Oikawa without the part that shoved them in a box for it.

“Yeah, okay.” Hajime hauls himself to his feet and leads Maeda to the door. So much for finding a girl who got along with Oikawa.

Hajime’s half in the hallway, leaning against the door frame while Maeda ties her shoes. Oikawa makes his way through the kitchen after them and crouches down to catch Maeda’s eye. “Look,” he says, the word enunciated and harsh. “Iwa-chan is my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were teeny-tiny little tots running around the backyard in our underpants—”  
  
“We were eight, moron, there were clothes.”  
  
Oikawa ignores him. “He’s the most important person in my life, and I’d do anything for him, I really would”—their eyes lock. Oikawa gives him a soft, fond smile over Maeda’s shoulder, the theatrical version that takes in even their parents—“so, even though it’d be super awkward, I guess I can try to talk him into the threesome if it’s that important to you.”  
  
Hajime snorts. It’s involuntary, a base reaction to the sheer amount of insane horse shit that just came spewing out of Oikawa’s mouth in such a sincere and earnest voice. For a second, even Hajime thought Oikawa was trying to do damage control.

“No thanks.” Maeda catches Hajime’s eye and frowns. She stands, pulling her bag over her shoulder in a fluid, confident motion as Hajime wrestles his inappropriate chuckling under control. Once they’re in the hallway and Hajime’s closed the door behind them, she asks, “Is this some juvenile thing where you act like a jerk so I’ll have to be the one to end it?”

The question is mild, all things considered, but Hajime feels like she’s slapped him. It does its job of snapping some sense into him, though. Why did he allow himself to get sucked into this again? Curiosity? Some misguided notion of pride? God, Sawamura nailed him right in his ‘competitive’ and ‘stubborn’ buttons, didn’t he? “I’m sorry about Oikawa. He’s been acting crazy lately.”

“I know. You’ve told me. Believe it or not, he’s not my biggest problem here. Do you realize how much you talk about him?” Maeda asks with that same sort of leading tone Oikawa’s sister uses on Takeru whenever she wants to teach him something without having to spell it out. “I mean, we barely had five words to say to each other all day; you’re like a completely different person when he’s around.”

Hajime doesn’t want to respond. His arms come up to wrap around his chest as he tries to keep himself from rocking back and forth on his heels. It’s horrid to stand here thinking that he just wants this to be over already, and it takes nearly half his concentration to keep that slithering thought at bay. None of this feels right, and Hajime might be willing to mull it over for a while except that it doesn’t feel harmless anymore, either.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way and I’m not going to lie and say things were going great, either, but was it that bad for you? We’re just getting to know each other, it’s not like you couldn’t have walked away if you were so unhappy.”

Hajime’s arms tighten and his gaze drops from somewhere over Maeda’s shoulder to her shoes. An ugly, bitter regret rushes through him. Hajime never wants any of this mentioned again, wants it wiped from everyone’s memories so he can pretend it never happened.

“I’m really sorry about all of this.”

“It’s okay. Well, not _okay_ , but at least I got a good story out of it in the end.” Maeda’s shaking her head when Hajime glances up. “I’ll see you around, alright?”

“Yeah.”

Hajime leans back against the wall next to the door once she’s out of sight. It can’t hurt to take a few minutes to decompress and let the part of this that feels complicated and overwhelming settle down. He just needs a second to breathe—then another, and about a hundred after that.

Two more long, drawn-out breaths and Hajime goes back inside. Oikawa gives him an appraising look from where he leans against the kitchen counter. “Let’s order take-out.”  
  
“Is that seriously all you have to say to me right now?” Hajime wonders. “What the hell was that about? I thought you liked her?”  
  
Oikawa shrugs and slides past to sit on the couch and wake up Hajime’s computer on the end table. “No more than you did.”  
  
“Who says _I_ didn’t like her?” Hajime tries to get the proper level of outrage into his voice, but it’s a bad job and he sounds more sullen than anything.  
  
“Sure. I guess if you want to keep lying about it you can, but it’s a little insulting that you’re pretending I can’t tell.” Oikawa rolls his eyes and flicks the computer mouse a bit further away. “I mean, how long, exactly, were you planning to stall out at the starting line? Hasn’t it been like a month? You barely talked to her, hardly ever saw her. Wouldn’t even call her Yui, didn’t tell her she could call you Hajime so she could be polite and refuse for a bit before letting you convince her when things got a bit more serious. This is amateur stuff here. But yeah, okay, you liked her.”

What an outrageous thing to say. “You’re one to talk. You’ve never called a girlfriend by their given name.”  
  
“How would you know? You don’t even bother learning what their names are.”  
  
“ _Neither do you._ I’ll learn your girlfriend’s name when she’s around for more than a month.”

Oikawa makes a _hmph_ like he’s ready to tell Hajime exactly where to shove it, then his eyes gloss over a bit while he taps his forefinger against his thumb. He’s counting. _He_ _’s counting_ and Hajime is absolutely saving this one to mock Oikawa with later. The brief humor fades as quickly as it came.

Hajime has never been self-conscious about something like this, especially not with Oikawa, but there’s an uneasiness that burns. Maeda was nice, she was smart—but those are still the only things he can think to say about her. He tries to draw it out further: her hair does a cute little flip at the ends; she’s quick-witted but calm; she has an admirable commitment to her studies that Hajime can identify with. It still feels superficial and forced, Hajime wouldn’t have noticed her at all if she hadn’t nearly bowled him over.

If he thinks about it, really takes the time to consider the events of the afternoon, he supposes the part that has him so uneasy is that it feels like something is over. He can’t imagine going back for another round. That seems all right, too, like a natural conclusion except he can’t understand how he’s supposed to explain that to anyone. People won’t get it—they’ll say take a break and come back to it later, don’t give up. Practice.

A small, rebellious voice in the back of his head whispers, _‘If you can be anything you want, why try so hard to toe the line?’_

“Pick a game. Something with Ubugawa. I want to take a closer look at the rotations they were using—might be something to think about, since we have Kuroo now,” Oikawa says, staring at the computer screen and browsing through some social media feed before switching to a new tab and pulling up the menu from a restaurant down the street they’ve talked about trying. “And Auntie wants you to call—says you’ve been awkward and not answering her texts.”

Hajime grabs the first disc he sees the name Ubugawa on without paying attention to what it is, pops it in, and takes the opposite end of the sofa. The last message from his mother is nothing special—she wants to know how he is. He replies that he’s fine— _lie_ —and his grades are okay— _understatement_. When she fires back with, _‘Dear Hajime, I’m happy to hear you’re well. Your father and I are proud of you. Love, Mom,’_ he drops his phone on the table and tries to lose himself in the game playing on the TV.

Oikawa simply wrinkles his nose and declares, “You don’t love her enough.”

Hajime grunts, because compared to Oikawa that’s kind of true, and it leads him down a dim, confusing path wondering if he’s even capable of the fierce affection Oikawa inflicts on those he loves, whether they like it or not. Ma adores it; Hajime… it comes and goes.  
  
“Hey, asshole.”

Oikawa glances over, smug as hell and sure he knows exactly what’s coming.

It sucks so much that he’s right. At least Hajime doesn’t have to say the words. "Order from that place you were looking at. Get me something that looks good, I’ll go pick it up.”

*** * ***

“Okay, so here’s the deal.” Hanamaki leans on the back two legs of his chair, arms crossed. “We’ve tried being nice. We’ve tried being subtle. We’ve tried being supportive and understanding and hoping things will work out on their own, but you’re kind of veering into train-wreck territory now. It’s time for drastic measures.”  
  
Hajime is incapable of taking Hanamaki seriously when he’s wearing a peach-colored dress shirt underneath a white blazer, and pink and black plaid pants. The moron had greeted Hajime with a groan and muttered, “I can’t believe what you’re wearing,” like Hajime’s some fashion reject for wearing a hoodie and jeans.  
  
“Hanamaki Takahiro,” he croons to the waitress, gazing up at her through his lashes when she comes over to take their order. “I’m an artist.”  
  
“Right, but do you want something to drink?”  
  
“Two waters and a large order of fries,” Hajime says before Hanamaki spouts out any bullshit about how wine glasses are inspiring and he’d like an ice cream float served in a purple-tinted one, or whatever crap looks about to spew out of his mouth. The waitress leaves with a grateful look and now it’s just Hajime and Hanamaki, staring at each other from across the little table at some burger place out in Shinjuku.  
  
“Anyway, the problem is that between you and Oikawa, we can’t figure out who is more hopeless. Since you and I have an unbreakable bond of trust and friendship, I get to deal with you.” Hanamaki glares. “Lucky me.”

“I assume ‘we’ is you and Matsukawa?” Hajime actually misses Matsukawa a fair bit, if only because he tends to get sucked into Hanamaki’s fuckery so severely that neither of them ever bothers anyone else until they’re setting shit on fire—metaphorically and in one spectacular instance, literally. Combined they’re almost as bad as Oikawa, but only almost because neither Hanamaki nor Matsukawa have ever screamed at Hajime for forgetting their safe word in front of a hundred people with their hands down his shorts.

Hanamaki offers an unimpressed, arched eyebrow in response.

“Can I trade?”  
  
“No. So, here we go,” Hanamaki says. “Hard truths.”  
  
“Uh-huh. Did you hit your head recently?”  
  
“This courtship ritual you and Oikawa have fallen into is getting a little fucked up. Stop using others as a proxy to flirt through. Stop sabotaging each other’s relationships. Neither of you have anything to be jealous of, you’re both incapable of factoring someone into your personal lives at that level.”  
  
Hajime can’t even begin to parse that. “Wait… what?”  
  
“You have two options as I see it. One: you face reality and stop trying to delude yourself into believing you’re serious about getting to know someone. Two: you take a step back, maybe have some casual fun, and expand your horizons. Go out, make new friends! That’s what college is for!”  
  
“I _have_ made new friends!”  
  
“I’m sorry, I meant go make new friends that you want to sleep with. And then sleep with them.”  
  
Hajime, again, offers the waitress an apologetic cringe in the shape of a smile as she drops off their food and leaves without a word. He takes a second to grab some fries and shakes his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Please, Iwaizumi.” Hanamaki rolls his eyes and shakes his head at the ceiling. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, you’re wearing his clothes.”  
  
“So what? We share all the time, who cares?”  
  
A blank, unimpressed stare.  
  
“Look, none of this is necessary. I don’t know what sort of crazy you’ve been snorting, but if it makes you feel better I’m taking a step back from that whole… _thing_.” He shudders. If Hanamaki tries to call him out on it, Hajime’s blaming the chill in the air every time the door opens. He doesn’t even want to think about it. Between going for another round of dating hell and doing nothing, Hajime would much rather do nothing.

Hanamaki throws a whole french fry in his mouth and makes a show of chewing while tapping his chin. “Consider yourself on probation. Now, I didn’t come all this way just to provide you with a much-needed intervention.”  
  
There’s so much to say to that, Hajime doesn’t know where to start. “You live a block away. I took the train for half an hour to meet you.”

“We have other serious matters to discuss. Like Kunimi’s attempted coup of the Seijou team with only Mad Dog to back him up. Seriously, the two tried to overthrow Yahaba. Now, tell me how. Tell me any series of somewhat plausible events that lead to that happening.”  
  
“Kyoutani? Seriously?” Hajime’s never seen him so much as speak to Kunimi. He wonders what Yahaba used for stakes to get Kunimi motivated—sounds like it was overkill. “Whatever it was, must have been good.”  
  
Hanamaki rocks back on his chair before shifting his weight and letting the front legs come back to the floor. “Maybe? I’ve been asking all day, none of them will give me any details. You gotta call Mad Dog, he’ll talk to you.”  
  
“I don’t know.” Hajime snags a couple more fries from the diminishing pile between them. “I can think of a lot of reasons they might not want you to know. Mostly that you’re evil. You are _aware_ you’re evil, correct?”  
  
“I’m chaotic neutral if anything.”  
  
Hajime flags the waitress down for the bill and pays before she can go anywhere so she won’t have to come back again. Hanamaki follows him out of the restaurant without so much as an iota of shame for how ridiculous he looks. Good lord, Hajime missed the cowboy boots on the way in.  
  
“Next time you’re riding the train and paying.”  
  
“Aw, but I thought you treated all your friends. Or is Oikawa just special?”  
  
“What is wrong with you, Oikawa pays the _rent_.” There’s a fleeting, boastful moment over finally getting the upper hand in this ridiculous back-and-forth—then Hajime has to lock that away because he should not be so proud of shutting down Hanamaki when he’s being outright delusional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Kuroo does his best to get Hajime dancing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hajime shrugs. “I don’t understand the problem. His knees are pointy, he _deserves_ to have his head shaved. ‘Sides, doesn’t take much planning, we have clippers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: there is some purposeful suspension of disbelief here.
> 
> So let’s all just accept from the get go that this setting is extremely chill and that Hajime manages to pick up on that all by himself without someone beating him over the head with it. Twice. Okay, maybe three times.
> 
> AU Pass. Using it.
> 
> On an unrelated note my job is numbers and I'm so tired that I think I don't know words anymore. If this chapter actually says 458323545 363656 53 5525 and is in reality an excel file... oops?

When Hajime opens the door after four hard, spaced out knocks, the last thing he expects is for Kuroo to come crashing in from the hallway. Hajime cannot get a read on this guy, most of the time he seems like a complete ditz. Too bad Kuroo’s grades are somehow better than Hajime’s are.  
  
“Where’s Oikawa?” Kuroo cranes his neck to take a careful look around the apartment as if Oikawa could jump out at any moment. It wouldn’t be the first time.  
  
“Out with Kasuki.”  
  
“I thought her name was Kagawa?”  
  
Hajime shrugs. He’s not going to pretend he cares.  
  
A delighted smile crosses Kuroo’s face, so similar to Oikawa’s when he’s plotting something especially dramatic that Hajime’s already taken five brisk steps away and is still going. Kuroo lets him keep a couple of paces between them but doesn’t allow Hajime to outright bolt. He looks Hajime over, head-to-toe.  
  
“Some of my friends are having a party tonight—you should come. Blow off some steam.” Kuroo herds Hajime further into the apartment. “Figure some stuff out.”  
  
“N—”  
  
_“And_ ,” Kuroo says before Hajime can get the word out, eyes glinting. “Just so you know, the party is for my birthday. Which you missed. So, you kind of can’t say no without being a huge dick.”  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
Less than an hour later, Hajime’s wearing one of Oikawa’s nicer shirts and the darkest jeans he owns, sitting on a train next to Kuroo. He’s made Kuroo promise three times they’ll make the last train back, and now there’s nothing to do but fidget, sweat, and try not to have too many regrets before they even get wherever they’re going because he’s sure to have a hell of a lot of them later. No need to get burnt out.  
  
Hajime’s never been to a real party.  
  
Kuroo leads them to a house only two blocks from the station they disembark at, not bothering to knock or announce himself when he opens the door. There’s only a handful of people inside—they could be early, or maybe Kuroo’s someone who declares any gathering of five or more to be a party. Inside, Kuroo takes a careful survey before spotting a pair of guys that Hajime recognizes. Of course the friends throwing Kuroo a party are Bokuto and Akaashi, Hajime doesn’t know why he expected otherwise.  
  
Bokuto is a beefy guy with hair nearly as disrespectful as Kuroo’s. His shirt’s only half-tucked in; his jeans frayed and torn at the hems. He lets out a loud cry when he catches sight of Kuroo and his arms fling wide in invitation. Kuroo launches himself into the hug and smacks a wet kiss on Bokuto’s forehead. They swing around in a tangle of limbs. Akaashi has to duck to avoid one of Bokuto’s arms hitting him in the face.  
  
Is this what it looks like when Oikawa does that? Hajime is utterly mortified; he’s never letting Oikawa jump all over him in public again.  
  
Akaashi, on the other hand, is built a lot like Oikawa but not quite as tall. Still taller than Hajime, though. The sleeves of his shirt are folded up to his elbows, the hem tucked into his jeans—the tidiness makes sense, from what Hajime’s seen of Akaashi’s sets. How in the world did someone so precise and put-together wind up friends with Kuroo?  
  
With a wild gesture and silly little dance, Kuroo says something, and Bokuto jerks his head to the side—he looks directly at Hajime with a delighted gasp.  
  
This is going to be a long night. Hajime can feel it.  
  
Kuroo looks back over his shoulder and grins. He grabs hold of Bokuto’s wrist, snags Akaashi as well, and drags them both over to where Hajime stands frozen and unsure what to do, a handful of steps from the door.  
  
“Iwaizumi, meet some friends of mine,” Kuroo says with a dramatic wave. “This one’s Bokuto. I’m gonna warn you now that he can get a bit touchy-feely, so maybe keep out of his immediate reach. Bokuto, Iwaizumi absolutely does not want your hands up his shirt.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bokuto asks with an expression somewhere in the middle of offended and confused.  
  
A quick, subdued chuckle sounds from Akaashi. “It means you scare new people away.”  
  
“Do _not_.”  
  
“Fine, sometimes you don’t, but those are the kinds of people that scare _me_ away, so I wouldn’t brag too much.”  
  
“And this is Akaashi. He’s a third-year at Fukurodani—master setter, team captain, occasional love of Bokuto’s life, etcetera.” Kuroo makes a twirling gesture with one finger and glares at the guy. “He’s the one I hope quits volleyball forever.”  
  
“I have terrible news for you, then.” Akaashi glances at Kuroo without moving his head.  
  
“Fuck. Let me guess, Chuo,” Kuroo says, deadpan with an eye roll for good measure.  
  
“Haven’t decided yet.”  
  
Kuroo shakes his head. “ _Fantastic_.”  
  
Akaashi shifts his focus to Hajime. “It’s nice to meet you, Iwaizumi-san. We’ve all heard a lot about you.”  
  
“Yeah, nice to meet you, too.” Hajime returns the nod and shifts his weight. This is… a lot to process. “Just Iwaizumi is fine. I watched one of your games a while back. Against Nekoma. You guys are impressive.”  
  
“The Tokyo qualifiers last year.” Kuroo chimes in.  
  
“Ah, yes. Crushing Nekoma does usually make for a good match.” Akaashi says thoughtfully, with a needling sort of snark.  
  
Bokuto snickers. “Yes, yes it does. I miss wiping the floor with them.”  
  
“Akaashi’s going to make sure we get home alive,” Kuroo says. He slaps Akaashi on the back so hard, he nearly stumbles. “We’re on his way back, so it’s easier for him to come with us and crash for the night.”  
  
“So, you’re making him babysit you?” Hajime asks.  
  
“Sure, buddy, he’s gonna babysit _me._ ” Kuroo makes a sort of mocking _pfft_ noise. “Is it cool if he crashes on your couch? Your place is closer to the station, but if you think Oikawa—”  
  
Hajime has a feeling that he doesn’t want any of these people finishing thoughts involving Oikawa at all. Ever. He directs his reply to Akaashi. “It’s fine. We’re happy to have you. Our couch is at least six times better than whatever Kuroo’d have you sleeping on.”  
  
“I appreciate the hospitality. Thanks for sparing me the horrors of Kuroo’s dorm room.”  
  
“It’s hard to tell sometimes, but he’s a good guy,” Kuroo says. He winks, exaggerated and so obvious even Hajime can’t mistake it. “You two should talk. Come on, Bokuto.”  
  
“ _What?_ No!” Bokuto whines. “Everyone’s been going on about this guy forever, I’ve been _dying_ to meet him—”  
  
Kuroo grabs Bokuto by the shoulders and turns him away before he can say anything else, whispering something about space and taking sides.  
  
Bokuto glances back with an annoyed scowl. “Fine.”  
  
Hajime mutters, “Subtle.”  
  
“As subtle as they ever are, anyway. It really is nice to finally meet you, by the way. Kuroo talks about you a lot. Oikawa-san, too, actually—I had the pleasure of meeting him over summer break.” There’s a bit of a smirk hidden in Akaashi’s smile, Hajime thinks.  
  
“Oh?” Hajime asks. “Did they tell you about how they’ve been torturing me every Sunday for the past six months by rating how amazing they are?”  
  
Akaashi presses a knuckle to his lips, stifling a laugh. “Yes, actually. They’re quite proud of their system, aren’t they?”  
  
“They’re not even rating body parts anymore. Last weekend I had to listen to Kuroo go on and on for like twenty minutes about ingenuity and how it’s obviously different from intelligence.”  
  
“I assume he also insisted that not only is his ingenuity greater, but that it’s clearly the more important trait, too?”  
  
“Yep,” Hajime says, the word popping from his lips.  
  
“Sounds like Kuroo.”  
  
It turns out that Akaashi is a pretty easy guy to talk to. There’s not much of the awkwardness Hajime has with new people since moving to Tokyo. Maybe it’s the way Akaashi is how Hajime expected from watching his games, or how he picks at the label on his water bottle and then smooths it back down, over and over. Hajime has to concentrate on not doing the same to the beer Kuroo gave him. He’s nervous about drinking too much of it, but he’s sipped his way halfway through and feels fine. Loose and relaxed, maybe; a bit more talkative than usual. Laughter for Akaashi’s stories about Kuroo and Bokuto making up names for their volleyball moves comes freely when Hajime is normally more reserved.  
  
They’ve wound up in a corner near the back of the house. Occasionally someone comes over to talk to Akaashi or Kuroo wants to introduce someone to Hajime—but Hajime’s first impression was right, this must only count as a party in Kuroo’s eyes. People cycle in and out, but there’s never many around at any one time and for the most part, Hajime and Akaashi are left alone.  
  
The question he’s dancing around rears its head—he’s not sure how to bring it up. Is it rude to prod about Kuroo’s ‘love of Bokuto’s life’ comment? It shouldn’t matter, it doesn’t make any difference and Bokuto seems over-affectionate with anyone and everyone he’s able to physically reach. It’s how Hajime wound up in a corner.  
  
Still, there is a surprisingly large desire to ask and Hajime is too curious. It nags him. Hajime doesn’t have anyone to talk about something like this with; he feels ignorant and small—like his little town sheltered him too much from the real world.  
  
Akaashi takes a sip from his water bottle. There’s a moment of appraisal between the pair of them. Whatever Akaashi sees, it must satisfy him. “You don’t need to be nervous or embarrassed. I don’t mind if you want to ask about Bokuto.”  
  
Hajime feels anxious, but having permission is a powerful driving force. “You’re gay?”  
  
“Not exactly. I’m not a fan of romance in general. Sex is okay; I like fooling around with Bokuto, anyway, and it can be fun with other people, too. I don’t really feel like gender is the restraining factor, though. It’s more of a thing where I’m usually not in the mood.”  
  
The mere mention of sex is enough to get Hajime’s face warm. The bottle is sweaty in his hands—condensation pools over his fingers. “I’ve never talked about this with anyone. I mean, Oikawa and I talk about girls, lament our terrible dating choices, and ruin each other’s relationships, apparently, but the rest? I—I’ve never thought about it.”  
  
“I think my school—or maybe Tokyo in general—is more accepting than you guys are up in Miyagi. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not an open thing but at least I could always talk about it within my circle of friends.”  
  
It’s an interesting notion, this idea of not falling into an extreme, of not being in the mood. Hajime rolls the idea around and drinks. It never occurred to him; maybe it’s _okay_ to do nothing. “How did you know?”  
  
“The summer break after I first joined Fukurodani’s volleyball team we all went to a water park together. It was a team-building thing and meant to be a fun way to blow off steam for the third-years since they were going into their last tournament season. I remember feeling… not right. There wasn’t anything wrong, but the rest of the guys were huddled up and drooling over girls—and I was apart from them. Didn’t even have enough to say to pretend I belonged. It was nerve-wracking, exhausting.  
  
“Bokuto noticed, of course. Spent half the day trying to get me alone. We’d had a bit of a flirtation going for a while—ever since we met, really—but he’d been pretty passive about it up until then.” Akaashi glances off to the side, idly fiddling with the leather bracelet around his wrist. Hajime looks over to see Bokuto engaging in an over-the-top slap fight with a woman wearing a canary-yellow dress and plastic tiara. By some hidden metric, Bokuto wins and claims the tiara as his prize, giggling uncontrollably while the woman kicks off her heels and tries to jump high enough to snatch it back off his head.  
  
“He finally cornered me after we got off the bus back at school and split off from the rest of the team. Dragged me out behind the gym like some silly cliche. Then, he asked if I wanted to try something.” Akaashi’s steady gaze snaps to Hajime; he feels cracked open and laid bare. “You know, I used to think about it a lot—what did Bokuto see that day? Why did he ask me a question like that, and how was he so confident that I’d say yes? I see now why he’s never explained it.”  
  
Akaashi rolls his water bottle between his palms before setting it down on the floor next to his feet. He watches Hajime with the same speculative look that started the conversation. The corner of his lip quirks up. “Do you want to try something, Iwaizumi?”  
  
There’s no sense pretending to misunderstand. Hajime’s calves twitch. His pulse hammers in his fingers. An array of responses spread before him—and he knows that he should laugh it off and wander away at the first opportunity. Get on a train and square his futon up against his side of the bedroom and let all these waves settle down. He should be spending his time hunting down a woman who doesn’t make him want to move to Antarctica and will be able to deal with Oikawa for the rest of her life—he’ll probably have to go to Europe to find her, or the International Space Station.  
  
Hajime is not going to do any of that. “But Bokuto—”  
  
“Kuroo likes to exaggerate, it’s not quite so defined between us. I like to experiment and Bokuto…” Akaashi points his thumb at Bokuto, fists pumping triumphantly in the air, carried piggy-back by someone so tall that Hajime hopes he’s on the basketball team. “He’s a bit of a free-spirit. He won’t care.”  
  
Hajime’s answer is unexpectedly sure. “Okay.”  
  
In his head it sounds more like ‘ _why not?_ _’_ and in his chest it feels like staring down a cannon. There should be something in that myriad that feels or sounds like doubt or caution, and the realization that there’s nothing of the sort is terrifying _._ His heart is going to explode.  
  
Akaashi steps forward, pries the bottle from Hajime’s grasp, and sets it down next to his water. “You only had the one, right?”  
  
“Yeah.”

With horror, Hajime realizes he’s never been this nervous before: not with Maeda, not when college letters started coming in, not even at the Interhigh. At least all those things had tells, a set of rules to follow, or a predetermined series of events all gleaned from movies, TV shows, and magazines. Hajime has a lump in his throat that he can’t swallow around. His head is fuzzy, attention scattered. There’s no playbook.  
  
Slow enough to give Hajime the chance to back out, Akaashi closes the gap between them. For a moment the atmosphere is still and quiet, then Akaashi tilts his head a little further to the right and his fingers trail over the skin of Hajime’s neck—and everything changes at once. An electric shiver zips down his spine. It’s the first time Hajime’s ever felt it, that little, nagging _itch_ under his skin that could combust at any second.  
  
It must be a coincidence, or habit, or those small similarities that have been stacking up all night that make him think of Oikawa. No one else is affectionate with Hajime; the warmth of another chest so close is foreign. Hajime’s thumb sweeps a lazy arc against Akaashi’s forearm—his weight shifts from his heels and he presses closer.  
  
Akaashi pulls away before there’s much of a beginning to it. Hajime’s forehead drops to Akaashi’s shoulder and his first breath stutters so hard he nearly chokes. It’s so stupid. It’s only a kiss, hardly anything at all, but it shattered something deep in his heart.  
  
Somewhere in the background, Kuroo laughs hysterically and cries, “ _Called it!_ ”  
  
“Fucker.” Hajime mutters, but he can’t work up enough irritation to mean it.  
  
Akaashi wraps both his hands around the one Hajime has dangling between them and leans his cheek to Hajime’s temple in a gesture of solidarity. Hajime squeezes his eyes closed so hard he sees spots. Once Hajime’s found some measure of calm, he straightens up and eases his hand away.  
  
Glancing back, Kuroo and Bokuto run careful fingers over the leaves of a plastic fern nearly as tall as they are, gesturing between the plant and each other. The tiara is still perched atop Bokuto’s head, though it’s knocked askew.  
  
How insulting, they aren’t even trying to disguise their spying.  
  
“He didn’t really, did he?”  
  
“All I know is that you confuse the hell out of him.” Akaashi shrugs and retrieves his water.  
  
Hajime grabs his beer and drains what’s left of it before excusing himself to the bathroom. Staring in the mirror, he’s sure something looks different but can’t pinpoint what it is. A fuzzy, anxious part of him worries that everyone will know at a glance. A louder, more belligerent part screams that he needs to get out of this bathroom, out of this house, out of Tokyo and back to Miyagi where he can hide in the Seijou basement until he dies alone and pathetic, but at least a little more self-aware.  
  
Kuroo is waiting for him outside the bathroom, another pair of bottles in hand. It’d be too much work to smack the shit-eating grin off his face, and Kuroo is too intuitive to misunderstand where it’s coming from anyway, so there’s no point. Instead, Hajime accepts the beer Kuroo holds out and lets him sling an arm over his shoulder to lead him through the house and out front. It’s cold but Hajime welcomes the quiet.  
  
“Just take a minute to chill, then we’ll go back in and everything will be fine.” Kuroo holds out a little, blue bottle opener.  
  
“You didn’t actually call it, did you?” Hajime picks at the label with his fingernails before popping the top off and taking a long pull. It bothers him. How could Kuroo know something like this?  
  
“Sort of? Didn’t think it’d be Akaashi, though.” Kuroo shrugs and gulps down what must be a third of his beer. “I figured he’d just do his Akaashi thing and you’d wind up on the business end of an eye-opening chat. I mean, seriously, that guy will tell you anything if you ask. What’d he say to you?”  
  
Hajime blames the way his thoughts ooze like molasses and the trauma of having life-shattering revelations at Kuroo’s stupid birthday party when he answers. “He asked if I wanted to try something.”  
  
“And you said yes.”  
  
Hajime stares at the sidewalk—there’s a crack running straight through, from end to end. Inside, a chorus of people chant Bokuto’s name. “I said yes.”  
  
Kuroo slings his arm over Hajime’s shoulder again and holds out his phone. “Commemorative selfie. As a fellow member of the ‘Akaashi gave me an existential crisis by talking about dicks’ club, I offer my sincere condolences.”  
  
The camera shutter clicks. Frozen on the display, Kuroo is grinning and Hajime’s open-mouthed and horrified, leaning as far away as he can with that vice-grip still over his shoulder. Kuroo lets go and swipes at the screen with his thumb. Another swig of beer soothes Hajime’s frayed nerves.  
  
“You didn’t really, though, right? You didn’t _actually_ call this.” Hajime feels like a broken record: distressed, needle skipping in the same groove every rotation.  
  
Kuroo laughs. “I may not have thought it’d be Akaashi, but I did wonder if it’d be Bokuto before the night was over—hell, you might be the only person here he’s never made out with. No way you would’ve…”  
  
There’s an awkward pause. Kuroo smiles that disconcerting grin of his that makes Hajime uncomfortable, like Kuroo sees straight through him.  
  
“What?” Hajime asks. When Kuroo doesn’t explain right away, Hajime asks again. “No way I would have what?”  
  
“I just figured it’d have to be someone new, at first.”

*** * ***

True to Kuroo’s word, when they go back in, it’s surprisingly okay. No one was paying any attention to Hajime before, and that still seems to be true. He holes up in the kitchen with Bokuto and Kuroo. Akaashi is nearby, not quite part of the conversation, nodding his head and swaying to the music while he alternates taking pictures and chatting with the giant from earlier—Hajime is starting to think he looks familiar, which means he’s probably somewhere on Oikawa’s hours upon hours of game footage. Akaashi contributes when he feels like it, usually to snark at Kuroo without so much as acknowledging that Bokuto’s being just as ridiculous.  
  
“Here’s the thing.” Hajime threatens Bokuto with a shot glass. It’s half-full because apparently, he’s a baby—when the liquid inside sloshes up the side and drips over the rim, Hajime recants all his objections to Kuroo’s shot measuring logic. “He is actual garbage. Like, he’s trash. He’s a total trash bag of a human being.”  
  
“Sure!” Bokuto agrees enthusiastically and clinks his shot against Hajime’s. “Cheers!”  
  
It’s not liquor in the glass. It’s actual fucking fire; this is a huge mistake. Bokuto shudders a bit before grabbing two bottles of water and handing one over while Hajime coughs his lungs up onto the floor. “Holy shit, that’s terrible.”

Kuroo, the bastard, doesn’t so much as blink when he throws his shot back.

“So, I might be confused.” Bokuto thinks it over for a second. “Yeah, definitely. Aren’t you and Oikawa best friends forever and all that shit? How does that work if he bothers you so much?”

Hajime blinks. What? “He doesn’t bother me; I’m just saying he’s terrible.”  
  
Bokuto nods, eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh. So, you… like him? Because he’s terrible?”  
  
“Yeah. He’s my terrible, garbage disposal of a best friend and the next time I wake up with his knees in my ribs, I’m gonna shave his head.” That sounds about right. Hajime nods like he’s confident in his reply and downs the entire bottle of water trying to get the nasty taste out of his mouth.

To the side, Kuroo jerks his chin toward Hajime. “I told you, this one’s just as crazy as Oikawa. You didn’t believe me. ‘No one’s as crazy as Oikawa!’ you said. Ha!”  
  
“You know Oikawa?” Hajime asks.  
  
Bokuto’s narrowed eyes go wide and he shakes his head in slow, wide arcs. “Not really? Nope. Just… nope?”  
  
Kuroo sounds like a hyena choking.  
  
“Must be cool to meet him now.” Hajime can’t quite get the concept into words, but it’s so clear in his head. This notion of no history, no baggage, and no expectations. He’s not sure why he spent so much energy stopping himself from thinking about it; it’s lovely.  
  
Kuroo and Bokuto exchange a glance; Kuroo grabs Hajime by the forearms. “None of that. Let’s dance, there’s enough space.”  
  
“Oh, no, I can’t dance with you.”

“It’s easy.” Kuroo grins, predatory and wicked, completely misunderstanding the problem.

“No, man, you don’t get it. That’d be unforgivable. I’d have to hear about it every single day for _years_ and then really, Oikawa’d just go to once a week until the end of time.” Hajime’s fairly certain he couldn’t do anything of the sort even if he wanted to. Dancing? No.  
  
Kuroo gives him that _look_ again and lets go of Hajime’s arms. “This is a very strange display of loyalty, you know.”

“I don’t dance, so I can’t dance without him.” It makes sense, it does. Kuroo is just shit-faced.  
  
“But you’re actively planning to shave his head. Do I have that right?”  
  
Hajime shrugs. “I don’t understand the problem. His knees are pointy, he _deserves_ to have his head shaved. ‘Sides, doesn’t take much planning, we have clippers.”  
  
_“Right.”_  
  
“I gotta go to Miyagi, man.” Bokuto sounds fascinated, his attention bouncing between Hajime and Kuroo with rapturous interest. “The amount of crazy that comes out of that place…”  
  
No truer words have ever been spoken. Chibi-chan alone… “You have _no idea._ _”_

*** * ***

Hajime’s phone buzzes a reminder for the last train back to Setagaya. He’s spent the last twenty minutes or so leaning against a wall and watching Bokuto and Kuroo take turns trying to pull off some card trick that Hajime is pretty sure they have backward—also it probably doesn’t require a ball and a cup. Kuroo, for the most part, doesn’t seem all that affected by the stupendous quantity of alcohol he’s consumed. Bokuto is drunk off his ass and handling it stunningly. Hajime cannot imagine having that level of coordination right now.  
  
It doesn’t take any convincing to get Kuroo ready to go—one word about the time and he gathers up their jackets and signals Akaashi to grab his, too. It takes Hajime two tries to get his arms in the right sleeves, then his shirt bunches uncomfortably at his elbows. Kuroo fails to keep a straight face as he helps sort Hajime out.  
  
“You could stay.” Bokuto grins at Akaashi before stumbling without so much as taking a step. He nearly takes down the whole group of them. Perhaps Hajime overestimated his coordination a bit.  
  
“There is literally nothing I want less. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, and I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.” Akaashi tugs the last bit of Bokuto’s shirt still tucked into his pants free and laughs, rich and deep, so full of adoration that Hajime’s not sure how it’s not bursting from his chest. Like that thing in the alien movie Oikawa likes so much. God, Oikawa would think that’s the most romantic thing ever.  
  
The next thing he knows Bokuto is bearing down on him, arms outstretched with a lecherous grin on his face. Hajime remembers what Kuroo said on the front stoop; he’s filled with dread. In slow motion, Bokuto comes closer and closer. Hajime throws his arms between them. “But I don’t _have_ to make out with you, right?”  
  
“Calm down, it’s only a hug,” Bokuto says, laughing as he wraps his arms around Hajime’s shoulders.

Hajime is left trapped, waiting for it to be over, his arms pinned between his chest and Bokuto’s. Kuroo cackles and takes more embarrassing pictures.

They make the last train back by a matter of minutes, only a handful of other people on board. Once they’re in their seats, Hajime buries his face in Akaashi’s neck to hide from the harsh lights that make his eyeballs feel like they’ll start bleeding any second and expends an extraordinary amount of effort trying to understand how he smells _so good._

“It’s like pineapples,” Hajime decides. Like on a pizza.  
  
“I thought for sure Oikawa was the clingiest thing I’ve ever seen but damn, Iwaizumi, this is adorable,” Kuroo says, somewhere far, far away.  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
“Oikawa was fun, though, wasn’t he?” Akaashi chuckles and turns in his seat so that Hajime isn’t quite climbing all over him anymore. “I mean, except for the part where he got all sad-drunk. We’ll have to find a way to get everyone together sometime.”  
  
“I wanted to bring him tonight, but he had other plans. You guys suck at giving proper notice for these kinds of things.”  
  
If Oikawa were here… or, if he was there, at that moment with Akaashi… Hajime’s face burns as bits and pieces form in his imagination. It’d be soft and warm, taste like ramen, and feel like magic.  
  
Akaashi shrugs against Hajime’s cheek. “Doubt you could have convinced him, anyway.”  
  
“Please.” Kuroo snorts. “I had the power of emotional blackmail on my side. _This_ was the hard sell; Oikawa would have been nothing.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Maybe later Hajime will be embarrassed over how whiny he sounds.  
  
Akaashi pats the back of his head with a quiet _shh_.  
  
“Don’t worry about it.” Kuroo is so fucking annoying.

“Stop talking like I’m not here.”

“No. Pass out on the train home like a _normal_ first-timer.”

“Your hair is dumb. Thirty-five, tops.” A yawn comes barreling out of Hajime’s mouth.

“And you are an incredible little shit, Iwaizumi.” He says that, but Kuroo is laughing. It sounds almost fond.

Hajime’s about to drift off like Kuroo wants—he is _tired_ —when Akaashi pats his arm and says, “Up. We’re here,” and Hajime has to figure out how to be both upright and mobile again.

Akaashi has to catch his arm a couple of times, but they drop Kuroo off at his dorm and make it back to Hajime’s apartment without incident. Once inside, Hajime’s abandoned to deal with his shoes on his own and it shouldn’t be such a pain to kick them off and let them lay where they fall, but for some reason it takes two tries for each foot. He takes off his coat and shirt next because it’s hot as hell inside, how does anyone stand it with their clothes on? His belt goes after and he’s halfway to shedding his jeans, too, when Akaashi reaches for his wrist, chuckling, and waves a glass of water in front of his face.

“Here, drink this.”  
  
“You are my new best friend,” Hajime says before draining the glass of water in one go. How did he miss how thirsty he is? “I’ve been shopping around, you know, ever since Oikawa got my girlfriend to break up with me by trying to start and then refusing to join in on a threesome that nobody was willing to have anyway.”  
  
Akaashi furrows his brows and gives Hajime an odd look.  
  
“Did that make sense?”

“Almost. That’s the scary part of it, I think.”

“It’s fine though. Don’t tell him, but he was right. I didn’t really like her. I _never_ like _anyone_ —what’s _wrong_ with me?”

“And that means it’s the perfect time for you to go to sleep.” Akaashi pats Hajime on the cheek. “But for the record, there’s nothing wrong with you. Lots of people think so even if you don’t.”

That means more than it has any right to.

Hajime has enough presence of mind to get Akaashi pillows and blankets—probably too many, but it’s not like he’s going to pull out his futon when Oikawa’s right there snoring in his. He grabs Sugazilla and laughs when he realizes he’s sneaking into his own bedroom like it’s some sort of secret operation from a spy movie.

Sugazilla gets set down in Hajime’s usual place, and suddenly everything is simple. Hajime hardly has to do anything at all; he only needs to curl around the warm bundle of blankets wrapped around Oikawa and drift away.

*** * ***

The click of a camera shutter tears Hajime from sleep. His head feels stuffy and his throat is parched; whatever is going on, he doesn’t want to deal with it. He searches for the edge of the blankets with his hands. When he finds them, he pulls everything he can reach straight over his head.

“Go away.”  
  
“I’m afraid I’m at a loss as to how to handle this,” Oikawa says. “You’re supposed to feed and water it, no?”  
  
“Pretty much.” Akaashi, this time. “I usually throw mine in the shower with the water as cold as it goes. By the time he’s managed to get out on his own, he’s fine.”  
  
Akaashi. Oikawa. Hajime pokes his head out and grips the blankets to his chest. He’s blind. The concept of light itself is stabbing him in the forehead. “Oh, no.”  
  
“Oh, yes.” Oikawa’s beatific grin sends terror shooting through every one of Hajime’s bones. He dives for the blankets.  
  
Hajime fully intends to fight back but the moment he sits fully upright he collapses back to the futon and covers his head again. No. No, he doesn’t want anything to do with this. His kick is poorly aimed. It connects but does little to fend off Oikawa.

“Up we go!” Oikawa sings, catching Hajime’s foot before he can retract it.  
  
The struggle, Hajime is sure, is the most humiliating thing he’s ever participated in—with a witness, too. It takes some effort, but Oikawa does manage to wrestle Hajime into the shower and turn the water on full-blast, despite Hajime still wearing last night’s jeans and socks.  
  
“You _suck_ ,” Hajime says, trying to get Oikawa as drenched as possible before he can get out of the bathroom. He’s successful, but not nearly as successful as he wants to be. Hajime flicks water at the closing door after Oikawa escapes and scowls.  
  
The shower helps. Hajime stands under the spray for a good five minutes before shucking his clothes and cleaning up. By the time he’s done he’s still sluggish, but the disorientation has faded, as has the aversion to light in all its various forms.  
  
“Give me a few minutes and I’ll walk you to the train station,” he tells Akaashi on his way back to the bedroom to get dressed.  
  
Akaashi smirks. “But Oikawa-san is making me breakfast.”  
  
“Oikawa, you shit-head, stop trying to poison our guest.”  
  
“It’s just rice and eggs, Iwa-chan. Besides, I’m only trying to poison _you._ _”_  
  
Statements like that are best left ignored. Hajime’s not sure he wants to leave Akaashi and Oikawa to their own devices, though, so he throws on whatever’s on top in the laundry basket: an old pair of track pants and a shirt that started out as Hajime’s until Oikawa stole it some time last year. The two whisper while he changes, falling silent once he rejoins them in the living room.

“I can’t believe you.” Oikawa says when Hajime takes a seat with them at the table. “You brought home a random guy from a party, left him to sleep on the couch, and then didn’t even use your own futon. So rude, Iwa-chan, I don’t know where to begin.”  
  
“Not a _random_ guy,” is the only part Hajime can think to argue over.  
  
“You should also be aware that you are prodigiously cuddly when you’ve been drinking.”  
  
Hajime stares, trying to sort out the words into a statement that makes sense. “I can’t deal with your vocabulary calendar right now. And you lie.”  
  
Akaashi glances up from his breakfast. “You were pretty cuddly with me, too.”  
  
“Like being spooned by an aggressively affectionate grizzly bear,” Oikawa says.  
  
“Hmm… I would have described it as being nuzzled by a mountain lion that’s been tranquilized, but your analogy works, too.” Akaashi chews his breakfast with a perfectly straight face.  
  
“Nuzzled?” Oikawa whispers under his breath with a strange frown. A moment later he howls with laughter. It sounds off, but not in any way Hajime can identify. It’s almost a new thing entirely—something too loud and barking that hurts his ears.  
  
“I hate you both.”

“Alas,” Akaashi says, “and here I thought we were best friends, now.”

The food looks edible, though Hajime doesn’t have strong feelings against being poisoned at the moment. He wolfs breakfast down—because Oikawa and Akaashi have started, not because he’s uncouth, starving, and feeling more awkward than he ever has in his life—and begins the process of herding Akaashi out the door.

Bits and pieces are coming back to him. Every time Hajime looks at Akaashi he gets little flashes of soft lips and a pair of sympathetic, warm hands cocooning one of his own. It’s going to hit him like a truck any minute. The most Hajime can do is delay it long enough to avoid an audience.  
  
“It was good to see you again, Oikawa-san.” Akaashi tilts his head and smiles. “I’ll tell Bokuto you said hello.”  
  
“That’s really not necessary.” The first syllable squeaks, and it shouldn’t be possible, but somehow Oikawa’s face seems to have turned both fuchsia and a sickly green.

“When did you meet Bokuto?” Hajime has a vague memory of talking to Bokuto about Oikawa last night—hadn’t he said they didn’t know each other? Though, after thinking for a moment, it’s painfully obvious that Bokuto must have been lying.

Oikawa is speechless, stuck opening and closing his mouth with no sounds coming out. When it becomes apparent that Oikawa’s not going to answer, Hajime turns to Akaashi.

“A couple of months ago, I think you couldn’t make it for some reason? At least that’s what Kuroo said.” Akaashi turns his attention back to Oikawa. “We’re getting together again pretty soon by the way—you’ll both have to come. I’m sure we’ll all have so much to catch up on.”

“I’m busy that day. Homework.” Oikawa bolts to the bedroom. Once he’s behind the closed door he shouts, “Have a nice trip home!”  
  
Hajime walks Akaashi to the train station because it seems the polite thing to do, but also because he has something to say before he decides if he’s going to avoid this guy for the rest of forever. “I just… I wanted to say thank you. For—you know…”  
  
“I hope you have fewer questions now,” Akaashi says, an earnestly sincere wish.  
  
Hajime’s not sure about that. “I don’t know. Maybe? I guess we’ll see.”  
  
“If it makes you feel better, I think you have a shot. You two are cute together.”  
  
Instead of correcting Akaashi’s assumption, Hajime snaps his teeth and backs away. The hold he has over his emotions starts to waver.  
  
“Oh. I see. Never mind, then.” Akaashi says, amused and tolerant of Hajime’s mood swing. “I left my phone number on your fridge in case you ever want to talk. It’s cool if you don’t though, up to you.”  
  
Another sincere kindness that’s nearly overwhelming. “Thanks.”  
  
Hajime tries not to think about it the whole way home, but it’s a lost cause that he gives up after half a block. He remembers that long sought-after electricity, coaxing him along like a siren. That sensation of finally understanding the appeal, and the realization that he’s always been faking his way through the motions. No wonder everything fell apart so easily and with hardly a care. Hajime hadn’t even known what he was after.  
  
Inside his apartment he stands in the little hallway that cuts through the kitchen, staring at the slip of paper taped to the right of _‘November 20, 2013, The word of the day is: syndicate.’_ Hajime still feels a bit like he’s stuck in slow motion when he pulls the paper with Akaashi’s name off the fridge and tucks it carefully into his wallet.

There are precious few things that feel certain. Hajime doesn’t care for girls. He doesn’t notice them, doesn’t feel any desire for soft curves or coy smiles. What he felt kissing Akaashi was something else entirely, some brilliant tease of what could be—of how it feels to be in the mood, as Akaashi so succinctly put it.

It’s a good thing, Hajime thinks. An answer to a question he’s always had simmering in the back of his mind with no clue how to express it.  
  
“You’re not actually poisoned are you?” Oikawa asks. Hajime jumps at the sudden presence, he hadn’t noticed Oikawa come out of the bedroom at all.  
  
“No. I’m just—” On the one hand, Hajime has learned this amazing new thing about himself, and he wants to share it with Oikawa. It’s only when the words are half out of his mouth that he stops and wonders if he shouldn’t. It seems wrong, almost, to tell Oikawa about this thing that happened without any measure of guilt; Oikawa has enough to deal with already.  
  
“You’re?”  
  
Hajime should keep his mouth shut. Let it settle and come back to it later when he has a better equilibrium and after Oikawa figures out whatever’s going on with him. He wavers. At a glance, Oikawa looks confused and worried, a bit hurt, too, once Hajime examines him closely. His reluctance dissolves.  
  
“I kissed Akaashi last night.” Everything slows to a crawl. The roaring in his ears is so loud he can’t hear himself stumble around clarifying. “Well, he kissed me. But I let him… I let Akaashi kiss me last night.”  
  
“I see,” Oikawa says, tone suspiciously free of teasing and face carefully neutral. “I didn’t know that’s something you’re into.”  
  
It almost feels like a spike straight to the chest. Hajime aches with the memory of those precious few seconds; he’s dizzy, can’t quite see straight. It’s _fine_. It’s incredible even, so why is there too much saliva in his mouth and wetness prickling at the corners of his eyes?

“I don’t— _I don_ _’t_ …” Hajime takes a deep breath and counts to twenty before letting it out. His head swims. “I don’t know, I guess. Yeah? It feels like the answer is yeah.”  
  
Hajime’s face is hot. An unnamed and unfamiliar emotion crashes through him—something feral and unrelenting that he can’t describe. It shouldn’t be such a complicated thing, there shouldn’t be so _much_ filling in the space around his lungs and constricting his chest. Before he realizes it, Hajime is folded in on himself against the kitchen cabinets, fingers laced over the back of his head. Oikawa’s hand comes to a heavy rest between Hajime’s shoulder blades. Finally, Hajime sucks in a breath that makes his whole body shake. Tears scald the legs of his jeans.

An idea tumbles through Hajime’s head: this abstract thing that he can figure out the general shape and size of, but none of the details. It shifts and pulls, clobbers his lungs and twists his stomach as he tries to make sense of it. At first, it feels sour, anxious. Then, it morphs into a disastrous typhoon coming in from all sides with no logic or sense to it. After, it dissolves into something natural, inevitable.

Hajime forces his shaky breaths into a steady rhythm. Slowly, his heart rate gets back to normal. The pressure in his chest eases after another noisy, rattling exhale. When the panic finally subsides for good, what’s left is a quiet combination of all those rapid-fire feelings, so small it could fit in the palm of his hand and more mysterious than ever.  
  
“I have a question,” Oikawa says after a few minutes have passed and Hajime isn’t seeing so many spots beneath his eyelids.  
  
“Sure.”

“Do you think you’re as bad at dating men as you are at dating women?”

A laugh bubbles from Hajime’s throat. “Probably? I don’t think this changes my stance on the dating thing.”

“No?” Oikawa falters for a moment and steps closer, adds a bit more pressure on Hajime’s back. “You weren’t _hopeless_. You’ve even had my hands in your pants—is that the furthest you’ve ever gotten with a lover, Iwa-chan?”

“Please don’t remind me of the time you groped my ass because you were angry that I didn’t want you to become permanently disabled. I don’t think you want to deal with the homicidal rage.”  
  
Hajime expects snark or wailing. What he gets is dry and sober. “You may think that, but I’ll deal with anything you throw at me.” Quieter, like a secret between them, “That’s what we do.”

It feels like hours before Hajime stands but it can’t be more than ten minutes. There’s still some turmoil, but there’s also relief, and the balance is all right for now.

“I want waffles for lunch,” Oikawa says like Hajime didn’t just have a total meltdown with hardly any warning or explanation. His hand moves to grip Hajime’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “And it’s my turn to pick the movie.”

Hajime’s laugh is disgusting, wet, and full of snot. “It is not, you asshole.”

“I made your one-night stand breakfast. I totally get to jump the line.”

“Nothing _happened._ _”_

“Oh yeah, mountain lion?” Oikawa sticks his nose in the air and makes a show of collapsing on the sofa. “Just so we’re clear, when the appropriate amount of time has passed, I’m going to be very angry about this.”  
  
Hajime doesn’t think he’s ever heard Oikawa make a serious threat in his life, but this is damn close.  
  
“Why—” Oikawa glares, and Hajime decides he doesn’t want to know. “Fine. Pick the movie.”  
  
It’s not until he’s curled up in a nest of blankets and pillows on the couch with Sugazilla on one side and Oikawa on the other, toes burrowing for warmth in the cushions that he realizes it’s the first Sunday since they met him that Kuroo didn’t come by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Oikawa comes down with a case of word vomit so bad, he accidentally starts telling the truth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa glares from his position obstructing the front door, sneers a bit then snorts a breath through his nostrils. Hajime will not lose this staring contest, he refuses. He crosses his arms and waits for Oikawa to explode. It only takes a minute.

The alarm goes off at five in the morning. Hajime swipes at the screen of his phone until he hits the right spot and it quiets. One of Oikawa’s knees digs into his ribs.  
  
Hajime debates holding Oikawa down and buzzing his hair off for five sleepy minutes. By the time the alarm sounds again, his heart is racing. The fantasy is too close, too intimate; Hajime kicks off his blankets, shoves Oikawa’s wandering limbs away and extracts himself from something more complicated than he can deal with this early in the morning.  
  
An ear-splitting wail erupts from Oikawa’s phone on the other side of the room.  
  
“No…” Oikawa whines, the word pulled long and into a sigh.  
  
Then, something truly baffling happens: Oikawa gets up. Hajime is confused, distracted from his current goal of becoming an upright human capable of physical activity by the sight of Oikawa doing the same for the first time… ever? This might be the first time Oikawa has been awake at five in the morning without an all-nighter or away game.  
  
Oikawa shadows Hajime through his barebones morning routine—he puts on whatever’s on top in the laundry basket, brushes his teeth, and splashes water on his face because it’s too much effort to fill the sink up and dunk his whole head in. Toothbrush stuck in his mouth, Oikawa stifles a yawn and stares at the faucet until Hajime snaps his fingers in front of his nose. They’re out the door only a little behind schedule.  
  
When Oikawa follows him from the apartment and stares down at a tangled pair of earphones in his hands, Hajime gives him a questioning look, grabs the earphones, and pries Oikawa’s phone from his grasp. After some thought, he pulls his armband off and swaps his phone out for Oikawa’s.  
  
“Stretch,” Hajime says once they’re both situated. “And you better have your brace on.”  
  
Oikawa makes a face but mimics Hajime’s stretches without argument. Once Hajime’s satisfied, he sets off at a brisk jog toward the park he likes to run laps around. It was the setting of his crazy Sugazilla dream months ago, though it feels like years since he woke up to Oikawa wheezing into his shoulder blades, elbows jabbing him in the back. He’s childishly keeping his pace ahead of Oikawa, curious how long he’ll hold up once they start running and if this is a one-time deal. It’s a bit different than the workout Oikawa’s used to—sure, they have to run for practice, but not so far.  
  
They take the last turn and come to the dirt path that makes a full circle around the group of blocks the park takes up. It’s the last chance he’ll have to ask for a bit, so he slows down until he’s even with Oikawa and asks, “What’s this about?”  
  
“There are other ways to improve my performance besides endless serving practice.” Oikawa grits his teeth. “Strength, stamina, dexterity. All stuff I can work on, too.”  
  
“You hate running. And mornings.”  
  
“What’ll we do when it snows?” Oikawa asks with another yawn, as if Hajime said nothing at all.  
  
“There’s time before class. I figured I’d alternate extra weights and using the indoor track.”  
  
“Help me with my arms,” Oikawa says. “I want to be buff like you, but prettier, of course.”  
  
“What you need to do is work on your core.”  
  
“Well, then you can help with that, too. We’ll swim.”  
  
“Fine. Ready?” Hajime snorts, cocky and sure. Oikawa lifts his chin in defiance and with that, Hajime turns his music on and sets off into a run. Oikawa takes a couple of tries to get going and gives up on the earphones, but he keeps up better than Hajime expected. After the third lap around the place Hajime has mercy and motions for them to stop at a water fountain.  
  
The moment Oikawa goes to parch his thirst seems like the perfect time to blurt, “If I wind up having to choose next year, I’m going to drop volleyball.”  
  
It’s not a fully-formed thought—just a vague inevitability that’s been prickling in the back of Hajime’s head all year.  
  
Oikawa misses the stream of water and gets a face full of it. _“Excuse_ me?!”  
  
Too late to take it back, but that was kind of the point of saying it like that. “I realized that I’ve been kind of secretive about wondering if I’m going to wash out. I didn’t mean to keep it from you and I’m not giving up. Just thought you should know where my priorities are.”  
  
The look Oikawa gives him is mostly furious, but there’s an understanding there, too, and something in Hajime’s neck and shoulders relaxes. Once they’re back on the path and about to start on the last laps, Hajime jabs Oikawa’s side and helps him with the earphones. They don’t fit Oikawa as well as they fit Hajime, but it’s not a big deal, they’ll stay on.  
  
“Stop making that face. I’ll still let you come running with me in the mornings, or swim, or work on your twiggy arms. Assuming you can keep dragging yourself out of bed, of course.”  
  
“I’ll keep it up.” Teeth grit and determination in his stance, Oikawa bites around his words and takes off without waiting for a response.  
  
It is oddly relieving that Oikawa doesn’t let Hajime back into the lead the whole way around the park and back to their building. For the first time in a while, Hajime is confident that they’ve turned a corner—and not just Oikawa, either. They’re both starting to even out, and that makes it easier to remember that nothing has ever kept Oikawa down for long. Surely whatever this is will be the same. Hajime will keep asking, though, if only to remind Oikawa that he cares enough to.  
  
At the front stoop, Oikawa rests his hands on his knees and takes a moment to catch his breath before he forces himself upright and rests his hands on his hips instead. Hajime had underestimated him, but not by too much; Oikawa’s never been much of a distance runner. Cheeks puffed out with a strong, deliberate exhale, Oikawa raises his arms over his head and starts his cooldown without being reminded. A moment later, Hajime joins him.  
  
“You haven’t been having fun,” Oikawa says, staring up at the sky while he stretches. “Which I think is a complete tragedy. I get it, okay? I don’t _like_ it, but I know you have different things to think about than I do.”  
  
This is so decidedly un-Oikawa that Hajime barely stops short of checking to see if he has a fever. “I’m starting to think you got body-snatched somewhere between spring registration and getting wasted with Kuroo.”  
  
Oikawa grins, bright and cheerful. This one’s actually in the realm of authentic but there’s a slightly overlong pause before he says, “I could ask you the same. I’m improving as a human being, Iwa-chan, you should try it sometime.”  
  
“Is that so?” Hajime asks, his amusement plain. “Sounds lame, you should stay a flaming pile of garbage so I’ll always look like the better one of us.”  
  
“Now who’s acting weird?” Oikawa mutters under his breath, petulant and teasing all at once.  
  
A quick shoulder-check on the way into the building shuts Oikawa up. Hajime’s not being weird, he doesn’t feel like a wound-up mess anymore; there’s a difference.  
  
Oikawa shoves Hajime back with a little snort. It does something funny to Hajime, gets him a little choked up out of nowhere—and they could take potshots at each other for the rest of the day without much effort at all, but this one time Hajime wants to cut it short.  
  
“Want to do something fun after my class this morning?” Hajime asks. “You’re free, right? We can get lunch, too.”  
  
A little smile plays at the corner of Oikawa’s lips. “I could be talked into it.”  
  
Inside their apartment, Hajime points Oikawa toward the shower. “We’ll stop by that sports store you’ve been talking about. I have to get a suit if we’re going to swim and I’m sick of hearing you bitch that you need new kneepads.”  
  
“That’ll do; color me convinced.” Oikawa winks right before he throws his sweaty, smelly shirt right in Hajime’s face. ****

*** * ***

At the Intercollegiate, the coach subs in Oikawa as setter to change up the flow of the game late in the second set. Oikawa never gives anyone a second to think he’s only there as a temporary measure.  
  
It is unreal for Hajime to stand aside and watch his team come together right before his eyes. It’s bittersweet to be a bystander while Oikawa plays in the quarter-finals. To see it happen without him hurts; to be there when Oikawa’s ambitions start to click into place is a pleasure the likes Hajime has never experienced. His heart feels like it might burst from his chest—so full and proud and happy and—he has to put his hands on his knees and catch his breath, it’s too much. He glances at Oikawa, up to serve, and feels like he could cry right there in the warm-up box and not give a shit who sees.  
  
Hajime wishes… he wishes he’d gotten to spike that ball straight to the floor, unmarked, just once, but watching court-side when Oikawa scores a no-touch service ace right on the line is a consolation prize Hajime wouldn’t give up for anything.  
  
Oikawa dominates the rest of the set and all of the third. Nittaidai crushes the opposition and advances to the semi-finals.

It’s okay that Hajime didn’t get an unmarked spike. The cheering from the stands is deafening. Their teammates celebrate in a swarm from all sides the instant the last whistle echoes through the gymnasium. Oikawa’s skin is hot and sticky with sweat when he catapults himself directly at Hajime without a care for anyone else. While Hajime laughs, bright and happy, Oikawa shouts his triumph with one fist in the air and the other gripping Hajime’s shoulder so hard, he’s going to leave a bruise. Hajime can hear Oikawa’s heart thundering in his chest, can feel his pulse racing. If Oikawa doesn’t stop kicking his legs and get his feet back on the floor, the two of them will fall over.

This is the start of something new, something amazing that Oikawa’s building from scratch and Hajime can’t wait to see what happens next. They tumble to the floor in a mess of limbs. Oikawa grins, climbs to his feet, and reaches out a hand.

Hajime itches.

*** * ***

When Kuroo throws both Oikawa and Hajime in a group chat with five other people who don’t seem to understand spelling, capitalization, or using words at all, Hajime is instantly suspicious. Kuroo, Hajime is sure, is addicted to stirring up whatever shit he can at every opportunity he finds. There is no chance he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing—no way Oikawa hasn’t confided _something_ that lets Kuroo put together far more of the pieces than Hajime can.

The chat is a mess, Hajime doesn’t bother trying to follow it after the first day and refuses to figure out who’s in there, but he does stop leaving when Kuroo adds him back for the fourth time. Oikawa seems to get a kick out of it, though, so Hajime’s surprised when one of the random alerts he let stack up for the sole purpose of ignoring them causes Oikawa to snap.

“I am not going to that party,” Oikawa says for the third time in a row without noticing that Hajime isn’t even arguing about it. He has his arms crossed and his best bitch-face on and has planted himself directly in the way of getting to the front door. “I don’t care whose birthday it is, who placed where in the tournament, or if someone is moving to another country and we’ll never see them again. I told Kuroo and now I’m telling you: no.”  
  
Hajime would let Oikawa fulfill his dream of tweezing his eyebrows before setting foot out of this apartment tonight. The idea of Akaashi, Bokuto, Kuroo, _and_ Oikawa all in the same room is the stuff of nightmares. Literal nightmares: Hajime had this one three times in the last two weeks.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Oikawa doesn’t believe him. “Fine?”  
  
“Yeah, we don’t have to go. Would rather not, to be honest. It’s not my scene.”  
  
Oikawa narrows his eyes. Hajime overplayed his hand, he feels it.  
  
“Wait, why don’t you want to go?” Suspicion is plastered right on top of Oikawa’s bitch-face; it’s a weird look on him, always has been. “I thought you’d jump at the chance to see Akaashi again. Kuroo said you were really _comfortable_ with him.” Oikawa spits the word ‘comfortable’ like it’s the most offensive thing he can think to say.  
  
“What is your problem with him?” There is frustration on Oikawa’s face now, rather than suspicion. Hajime shouldn’t poke it. He _shouldn_ _’t_. _“Well?”_  
  
Oikawa glares from his position obstructing the front door, sneers a bit then snorts a breath through his nostrils. Hajime will not lose this staring contest, he refuses. He crosses his arms and waits for Oikawa to explode. It only takes a minute.  
  
“I just don’t get what you were thinking!” Oikawa stomps his foot—literally stomps his foot like a child. “You asked yourself a question like that and didn’t come to me? Instead, you follow Kuroo to some party with his high school friends and make out with Bokuto’s setter, of all people, when you have your own setter _right here_. You could have at least made out with _Bokuto_ like the rest of us! That I could understand—”  
  
A particular word snags Hajime’s attention. Is that what this whole thing is about? “Us?”  
  
From his forehead, down his neck, and to the bit of chest not covered by his t-shirt, Oikawa turns a vibrant red.  
  
“You made out with Bokuto?”  
  
“Everyone makes out with Bokuto!” Oikawa snaps. “It’s his super-power.”  
  
“I didn’t.” For some insane reason Hajime feels guilty over it, so he adds, “And I didn’t _make out_ with Akaashi, either. It was one kiss, it was the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done, and it was barely more than a peck anyway.”  
  
Oikawa clenches his fists. “Maybe so, but you don’t usually let people touch you, or get too close. Just me. Even when you dated girls, it never mattered because it didn’t mean anything and you hated it. So, that you _let_ him means something. That you were cuddly with him _means something_. And that _one little peck_ was huge, whether you want to admit it or not.”  
  
It was. That kiss was life changing. Hajime can sort of understand why Oikawa is upset by it, too—but they can’t be _everything_ to each other, and deep down Oikawa knows that. This anger will pass. The frustration, confusion, and jealousy will all fade away—and it wouldn’t be as simple in some twisted alternate reality where the stars aligned and Hajime had this revelation with Oikawa instead of a not-quite stranger.  
  
Oh. _Oh_ , Hajime is never going to let Kuroo find out how right he was. He will lock it down and never let it out. “Why is this only coming up now?”  
  
“Well I couldn’t very well be upset about it when you were telling me, now could I?! I told you! _I told you I_ _’d be angry about it later,_ ” Oikawa says, sounding put out over having to wait two whole weeks to be pissed off. After a beat, Oikawa’s gaze slides down to Hajime’s shoes and he visibly shuts himself down. When he looks back to Hajime, he has a horrible, sarcastic smile on his face. “I don’t know why I was so surprised anyway. It’s to be expected, I suppose. It’s part of growing up: growing apart.”

“That’s bullshit,” Hajime says before he can think not to. Then, after second and third thoughts, while Oikawa stares at him with an even, cold gaze, Hajime decides _fuck it,_ takes three steps forward, and smacks Oikawa upside his stupid, dense, self-loathing head.

“Ow!” Oikawa glares but it’s better than that ridiculous show he was putting on, so it’s fine. Hajime can work with anger.

“Even if I’d had the faintest idea, I couldn’t experiment like that with you. I would never do something so horrible. Get over it. I know you want to mope around and be depressed for some reason but don’t stand there and lie to me just so you can feel bad. What’s this about? Bokuto? You have to know I wouldn’t care about something like that, even before—” And there is no end to that thought, so Hajime lets it trail away.

Oikawa laces his fingers together in front of his chest. He stares at them, bends them back and forth like he’s going to crack the knuckles, but never uses enough pressure to do so. “I’ve been telling myself all week that the next time you ask, that’s the time I’m going to say it, but it’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is. We’ll deal. Same as we always have.” Hajime doesn’t mean to sound so impatient and frustrated, but there’s no helping the tension that creeps into his voice.

“Fine.” A deep breath. Oikawa closes his eyes. “It wasn’t exactly a new thing, what happened with Bokuto. I was just scared that if I told you, you’d realize you weren’t looking all that close at a few things, and I knew— _I knew_ you would see it the second you looked. And I’m not afraid of you seeing it. That’s not it, but it will change things, and I’m”—Oikawa sighs, long and morose—“I’m risk-averse, okay? When it comes to you, I am risk-averse.”

Hajime can’t come up with a response. Thick anticipation settles between them. When the silence becomes awkward, he settles on asking, “Do you want me to start looking?”  
  
Oikawa draws his bottom lip between his teeth; his hands shake. “Go ahead.”  
  
It’s already obvious, this thing Oikawa thinks he needs to hide. Hajime doesn’t know what to do with it, how to handle something so precious that Oikawa has kept hidden and safe for—how long? Months? Since September, at least. It makes Hajime feel buoyant and achy; his throat is sore and when he takes a breath he inhales until he can’t anymore. He’s too clumsy for something so delicate, doesn’t know how to protect it without grinding it to dust—and yet, he wants to keep it cupped in the palms of his hands and cradle it forever. It fits so perfectly there, right alongside his own little mystery that he doesn’t know how to be part of yet. This love that means the world to Oikawa: it’s so radiant it’s almost painful to think about.  
  
The hug is fierce and ill-thought, but Oikawa sinks into it and clings to Hajime's back. Hajime sways back and forth and waits. Waits for Oikawa to stop shaking and to lift his face from the crook of Hajime’s neck. He ignores the cooling moisture on his skin and his blurry vision.

*** * ***

One day. Hajime is allowing himself a full twenty-four hours to think things over, and then he is going to _do_ something. He has no idea what he’s going to do yet, but that’s not the current issue. Right now, Hajime is focused on the thinking part. He’ll deal with things like decisions and consequences tomorrow.

It’s Sunday, so he doesn’t have to worry about classes or practice, but he does have to get the hell out of the apartment or face Oikawa being distracting and, later, Kuroo being obnoxious and enabling. Sawamura isn’t particularly surprised to find Hajime at his doorstep with hardly any warning, but Hajime thinks he might need to get this pondering thing over with because he doesn’t even remember how he got there.

“I don’t want to talk,” Hajime says. “Not to be rude or anything, but I know I look like I need to talk, and I absolutely do not want to.”  
  
“Okay.” Sawamura agrees. “You do that reading for Biology yet?”  
  
“Yeah, the other day.”  
  
“Help me understand about fifteen things from it?”  
  
The first seven points Sawamura has scribbled down in his notebook go smoothly. Between numbers eight and nine, Hajime concludes the odd sensation he feels from the pit of his belly into his throat is something like falling. It’s like the carnival ride he went on with Oikawa in first year at Seijou where they were strapped into uncomfortable metal seats that rose high above the ground before dropping with a sudden _jerk_. They’d clutched at each other; Oikawa screamed bloody murder through the whole thing, his fingernails digging into Hajime’s forearm so hard he can still see the marks if he looks for them.  
  
That’s the thing: Oikawa has invited him to look and now that he knows what’s there, he can’t help but. Hajime feels it crawling over the little scars on his forearm, smells it in the gentle scent of Oikawa’s sweater that he pulled on this morning without paying attention. Every time he closes his eyes, he remembers that night at Kuroo’s party, loses himself in the memory of the electricity and the taste and that quiet, sleepy imagining of what it’d be like if Oikawa was there instead. He keeps zoning out and when he comes to he’s scratching at his neck, or his palms, or the little patch of skin under his bottom lip, feeling like his stomach has flown up into his throat because more than anything else, this feels like falling.  
  
Sawamura lets it go the first two times. When he catches Hajime not paying attention for a third, he taps his pen on the table until Hajime can refocus. “You coming back to the team next year?”  
  
From anyone else, Hajime would probably take it the wrong way. Still, it’s not a question with a clear answer, yet.  
  
Sawamura understands the pause and continues, “I think I’m going to stay on at least another year, but I don’t know about after that.”  
  
“We should join one of the club teams. Then we could still play and have games, but without all the extra tournament stress piled on top of exam stress.” The more Hajime thinks about it, the more he likes the idea. “I don’t know if I can deal with another year like this one—but I don’t think it’s time to throw in the towel, yet. Maybe I’m just due for some adjusted expectations. Should work on my serve more. I could be that scary guy that comes in to rack up four or five points each set.”  
  
“Those are awesome ideas. Your serve is a scary thing. Could probably get Suga to join us if we find a club we like, too. Actually, between you and me I bet we could put together a whole team. That weird guy you hang out with who wears the hats was a spiker at Aoba Johsai, right?”  
  
“Hanamaki. Yeah.”  
  
“I hear he’s an artist now.” Sawamura rolls his eyes and bites back a chuckle. “But he was pretty damn good.”  
  
Sawamura’s always been a decent guy. He never asks what’s going on, why Hajime called him out of the blue saying he was on his block, is he busy? Not a word is mentioned about Hajime’s obvious distraction, but Sawamura pulls him out of it now and then so it doesn’t get too oppressive. When enough time has passed that Kuroo and Oikawa must be long done with their silly game, it feels safe enough to go back home. Sawamura reaches out a hand like he wants to pat Hajime’s shoulder but pulls it back at the last second—and Hajime is grateful for that restraint, too.  
  
Hajime cuts across campus to get home because he can focus enough to get pointed in the right direction and not have to worry about paying attention to where he’s going or making turns on the right streets. When he gets to the park, he deliberates for all of two seconds before moving onto the path that circles the place; he walks laps with his hands tucked into his pockets and chin dipped behind the zipper of his coat until the sun sets and the streetlights come on.  
  
When Hajime makes it back to his street, he stares up at the apartment building for a solid minute before sitting on the steps instead of going inside. He watches the sidewalk, bounces his leg, and tries to decide how desperate he is.

Desperate enough, he figures after a fourth person passing by gives him a wary look. Hajime digs his phone out of his pocket and dials before he has a chance to chicken out.

As soon as the first ring sounds he changes his mind, but he’d never get away with hanging up without some sort of explanation. The line connects and Hajime’s rushing out his question before there’s so much as a word breathed in greeting. “Do you think Oikawa and I—”  
  
_“Yes!”_ Hanamaki shouts so loud Hajime has to pull the phone away from his ear.  
  
This was such a mistake. Hajime can’t believe he stooped so low. “I didn’t even finish—”  
  
“Doesn’t matter. Answer’s yes.”  
  
“Stop being such a dick.”  
  
“Do Oikawa and I have an unusual friendship?” Hanamaki asks, his voice perched in too high a register and sarcasm positively dripping. Hajime wishes Hanamaki were here, just so he could strangle him for picking out the exact question he was going to ask on the first try.  
  
“I’m hanging up on you.”  
  
“Do Oikawa and I drive any individual who dares become romantically interested away with brutal efficiency, out of what our friends can only conclude is misplaced jealousy?”  
  
Hajime smashes his thumb against the end call icon.  
  
_‘Do Oikawa and I need to talk about boundaries?’_ The message pops up within seconds and Hajime stares at it with the horrible, churning realization that Hanamaki might have known what he was talking about this entire time.

He turns off his phone and paces up and down his block, not ready to go inside yet but also not able to get too far away.

And it feels—it still feels like falling. It always has. Like whipping through the sky at terminal velocity, and in all this time he’s been falling it never once bothered him, not until he reached a point where he could crash if he’s not careful. Part of him feels caution is imperative—but the other part? There’s a huge, pulsating need within him to collide with Oikawa waiting down there at the bottom, consequences be damned. He’s scratching his arm through the sleeve of his coat, thinking of all the marks Oikawa has left on him.

It’s past midnight. Oikawa laid out both the futons when he went to sleep. They’re square against the walls, Sugazilla laying face-down, wedged between them as some sort of passive-aggressive pillow-barrier, tail bobbing in the air. Oikawa has gathered a nest of blankets—his own plus the afghan from the couch and the spare that Akaashi used the night he crashed with them. It’s the first time Hajime has ever felt shut out.  
_  
_ It is frighteningly easy to imagine a vast array of _more_ —would take almost no effort—so, why choose to stay this? Hajime sits cross-legged on his futon and knows that he doesn’t want to be here any more than Oikawa does. On the other side of Sugazilla, blankets rustle.

They can be _anything.  
_  
When Hajime blinks awake the next morning only to realize he’s straddling Sugazilla and has his face smashed against Oikawa’s clavicle he thinks to himself, _‘Well, that’s probably answer enough.’_

It’s another thing that has startling clarity in retrospect. On the rare occasion Oikawa refuses to cross a line, Hajime climbs a mountain instead.

*** * ***

Under most circumstances, Hajime is perfectly capable of being both patient and understanding. He patiently attends his classes; he understandingly gives one-hundred and ten percent in practice. Because he has done both these things, he sees zero issues with dragging Oikawa home by the hood of his jacket, kicking off his shoes while Oikawa does the same, and then shoving Oikawa straight through the kitchen and into the living room.

“Sit.”

Hajime almost hopes Oikawa will be difficult about it, but he takes a seat at the table and stares while Hajime rolls his shoulders and extends his arms in front of him, then behind.

“What’s on your mind?” Oikawa’s head cocks to the side, propped up on his fist. There’s a challenge in his voice; Oikawa is goading him.

Hajime sits across the corner of the table, back to the couch, and places his palms flat on the wooden surface, fingers spread. He’s never been one to soften blows, prefers to be direct and blunt—especially when it comes to the train-wreck across the table—and he sees no reason to change that now.

“You called me your favorite person a while back. I wanted to tell you that’s mutual in case you somehow didn’t know. ‘Cause you’re right, about all of it. I don’t let anyone but you, or my parents, or the other people I love call me Hajime, and I don’t like for people to get too close—but it’s never bothered me with you. And I know I make a lot of jokes about how you’re trashy but the truth is I’m kind of trashy, too, and I like that we can be our stupid, trashy selves together.”

“Anything else?” Oikawa asks, eyes wide and bemused, cheeks dusted with the faintest hint of pink.

“You know what? Yeah, there is. I think you should stop beating yourself up over whatever happened with Bokuto because I don’t care; it doesn’t bother me. I shouldn’t have left you alone about it, though, and I’m sorry you had to deal with the fall-out by yourself.” Hajime thinks about if he has anything else to say for a good twenty seconds. Goes back and forth between keeping some secrets to himself and going all in. He might as well, he was always going to admit it eventually. “Also, I’ve been switching out the batteries in your computer mouse and remotes for dead ones for the past four years.”  
  
The instantaneous and complete betrayal all over Oikawa’s face belongs in a museum. “That’s not funny! I thought I was electro-magnetic—I thought I wasn’t allowed on airplanes!”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s how that works.” Hajime cringes. “Um, I also asked one of your girlfriends about how she was coping with your alien abduction kink.”  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“Fine. It was like, three of them.” God, Hanamaki was _right_ , Hajime’s every bit as terrible as Oikawa about this, he still doesn’t want to believe it.  
  
“I can’t believe you. You’re supposed to be the nice one.”  
  
“I _am_ the nice one.” He doesn’t remember exactly what it was retaliation for, but Oikawa definitely deserved it all three times. At least Hajime never stole Oikawa’s identity.  
  
“Liar.”  
  
“Shut up. The point is… What the hell are we doing? Are we seriously _like_ this?” And maybe Hajime’s not done thinking, but he gave himself a day. One day to figure his shit out, and time is up. He’s not letting this turn into some _thing_ where they mope and sulk for months on end. Oikawa’s already been slinking around depressed since the end of September, enough is enough.  
  
“Fuck it,” Hajime mutters under his breath.  
  
“What?”  
  
_“Fuck it.”_ He grabs as much of Oikawa’s shirt as he can reach and yanks him straight over the corner of the table.  
  
_“Ow_ , Iwa-chan, what the h— _mmfphg._ _”_  
  
It’s not anywhere close to romantic. Hajime doesn’t have much of an idea what he’s doing—but there’s something calm in the feel of Oikawa’s mouth, his bottom lip pressed between Hajime’s and the sudden whine coming from Oikawa’s chest. Oikawa presses his palms to the top of the table and leverages himself closer, tilts his head and _surges_ —Hajime’s eyes slide closed. For one endless moment, Hajime forgets everything else, then Oikawa goes still. Hajime pulls away to examine the look on his face: glassy eyes, parted lips, breath quick and sharp lie in the space between them.  
  
“Oh,” Oikawa’s weight shifts, and he raises a hand to Hajime’s neck, thumb sweeping up and down against the skin of his throat. _“Oh.”_  
  
Hajime feels a bit dazed by the whole thing, too. His stomach does cartwheels, then flips for good measure.  
  
Awareness washes over Oikawa in an instant. “What is that face you’re making? If that was bad you can’t blame me for it, I wasn’t prepared! Oh my god, what were you thinking acting like such a barbarian, I get a do-over, right? You have to give me a do-over!” Oikawa scrambles over the table with a frantic gleam in his eyes, same as when he pulls off a flawless set across the width of the court—it’s vaguely terrifying to be the focus of it. Then, something shifts, and a silent understanding passes between them that even little pecks can be life changing.  
  
This is the part that makes Hajime uncomfortable. He prefers decisive action, but sometimes he can’t figure out what to do _after_. He doesn’t get time to think about it, though, because Oikawa swats Hajime’s arms out of the way, crowds him further away from the table toward the couch, and climbs straight into his lap. Oikawa closes his eyes and presses his shoulders back, takes two deep breaths, and shakes his head side to side.

“Okay. Ready.” They stare expectantly at each other until Hajime has to blink. Finally, Oikawa’s smile is one of the real ones, full of patience and warmth. He settles his hands on Hajime’s shoulders and squeezes. “It’s fine, just relax.”  
  
Hajime glances up at the ceiling and wonders when his hands landed on Oikawa’s thighs. He didn’t put them there, he doesn’t think so, anyway. They gravitated to that spot; it happens a lot if he thinks about it. Relax. Deep breaths. He just has to roll his shoulders and bend his head side-to-side. Eyes closed, deep breaths.  
  
Oikawa’s version of it is sly and seductive. A feather-light touch on Hajime’s cheek guides his head back down to an angle where Oikawa’s lips catch his. He coaxes Hajime into it, moves his lips to guide and direct, uses one hand pressed to Hajime’s back, and the other on his face to control the angle and pace. The pressure is relentless and heart-racing; Hajime’s hands slide up, one to Oikawa’s hip, and the other decides to keep going up, up, up until his fingers tangle in Oikawa’s hair.  
  
It is—  
  
The palm to his back presses harder. Hajime can’t hold on tight enough. Little zips and zaps crackle, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. There’s no little jolt of electricity like before when something timeless and cold shattered inside him; it’s a thunderbolt striking deep in his gut and setting him ablaze. Hot and not too wet, and so, so carefully easing him open bit by bit until Hajime’s not sure if he’s breathing because he just crashed, hard, straight into Oikawa and the impact left him breathless.  
  
It is incredible—and it doesn’t taste like ramen, but it absolutely feels like magic.

“So, I’m one of the people you love, huh?” Oikawa says when he pulls back to catch his breath. Hajime leans forward, chasing after him.  
  
That was, Hajime realizes with some level of humiliation, one of the only parts of that whole thing he’d planned. It’s not like he meant it in the way Oikawa is implying, but—it’s not necessarily different. Hajime doesn’t want to explain or put too fine a point on it, because when he looks at Oikawa’s face he sees the little scar over his left eyebrow that matches the one on Hajime’s chin from the time they ran their bikes into each other when they were ten. There’s a line so faint he might be imagining it where Oikawa bites his bottom lip when he’s nervous or upset, and a hundred other little details he can find when he looks for them. So no, it’s probably not different at all.

Oikawa gives him a lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth, laces his fingers together behind Hajime’s neck, and grins. “Love you too, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime waits for a moment, tries to get his racing heart under control and figure out how to cope with his stomach doing flip-flops again, but it’s hopeless and a lost cause—and Hajime thinks he might like it anyway. “Thanks.”

“Okay. Ground rules.” Oikawa holds up his pointer finger between them. “One: I demand first rights to movie picks.”

“I don’t understand how that’s different from what happens now.”

“Two,” Oikawa says, ignoring Hajime entirely and raising another finger. “You are not to be within five meters of anyone named Akaashi.”

“No.”

“Three: You must have dinner on the table by no later than six-thirty every night, like a good housewife.”  
  
“Fine, but we’ll have cup noodles every day and die of sodium poisoning.” Hajime shrugs.  
  
Oikawa squirms a bit before continuing—and Hajime knows this next one is the one that matters. “Four: I don’t want to lie to Auntie.”  
  
“Of course we’re not going to lie to Ma.” It’s not an option. She’d know anyway, she’s psychic.  
  
After a handful of seconds, Oikawa moves to the floor, head on Hajime’s shoulder for a few breaths before he sits cross-legged and grabs Hajime’s right hand with both of his. The pressure of Oikawa’s thumbs digging long, purposeful ovals into his palm is relaxing. 

“What about other people? Like our friends?” Oikawa asks.

Hajime turns his head to get a decent look at him. “I don’t know. I think we should mess with them for as long as we can. I want Hanamaki to _suffer_.”

“ _Yes_.” Oikawa bounces in place and gets an ominous gleam in his eyes. “I’m convinced that he and Kuroo have been screwing with me.”

“Like, together?” That makes more sense than Hajime wants to admit. Those _assholes_. “I didn’t even realize they were friends.”

“I don’t know if they’re friends so much as co-conspirators,” Oikawa says, scrunching his nose. “There was this one time where I swear, Makki ditched me and then right after Kuroo conveniently showed up to drop a Bokuto-shaped _bomb_ on top of me in the middle of a diner before running away like a _wimp_. And I guess I wouldn’t have wondered too much about it, you _know_ I love the chaotic nature of the universe, but then you came home and said you’d had lunch with Makki in Shinjuku and that’s just so stupidly bold that I don’t think I’m capable of letting them get away with it.”

“ _Kuroo_ was the other half of ‘we?’” Hajime is flabbergasted. He never would have guessed. “Hanamaki tried to intervention me that day, the dick.”

“That’s what Kuroo said! Some stupid crap about how it was an intervention. He brushed it off as a joke but honestly, he was barely even trying.” Oikawa smacks Hajime’s chest with the back of his hand. “I don’t understand how this happened.”

“Well, you’re the dumbass who introduced them to each other.”

Oikawa pales. “I don’t know if we want to throw around blame right now.”

“Sure we do, and I want to _blame_ Hanamaki and Kuroo.” Then, because Hajime knows what that question was all about, he tugs Oikawa closer. “I don’t care if people know how I feel about you.”

The happy noise bubbling in Oikawa’s throat is more than enough to wash away any lingering insecurities about all these things that have changed in Tokyo.

“Well, then we have a deal. I accept your terms.”

Hajime shakes his head; he’s trying not to smile, trying to hold in his laughter and look as annoyed as he can. He’s not doing a good job of it. “ _Your_ terms. You don’t get to accept your own terms on my behalf, you know.”  
  
“This will be the start of something beautiful,” Oikawa says, purposefully disregarding things like facts and logic. “Everlasting. Full of devotion and fiduciary.”  
  
All these huge words Kuroo’s inflicted on Hajime are such bullshit. Ever since that calendar came into their lives, it takes twice as long to figure out what Oikawa’s talking about. Forget four years of persistently swapping out batteries, that damn calendar is the slow-burn practical joke of the century.

Hajime relaxes into Oikawa’s steady strokes against his palm and leans his head back against the couch cushions. “Right. Devotion and fiduciary.”

When he glances over, Oikawa’s smile is lazy; it’s a grin that comes out when he’s happy and relaxed. Hajime falls into that same relaxation easily and tugs Oikawa closer, does his best to mimic that slow, heated kiss that put his stomach in knots. For the first time in ages, Hajime is excited to learn—these are new steps, new plays, and Oikawa may be in the lead right now but that’s alright, too. Hajime will catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I laughed for about ten minutes straight after writing ‘devotion and fiduciary’ and even now, just thinking about it, I’m crying a little. I don’t know why it amuses me so much.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and fave’d and kudos’d and commented and all that jazz. <3
> 
> A handful of outtakes/sideshots/whatever you want to call them are coming in the near-ish future. I’ll throw everything in a series, the first one should be up sometime in the next week or two (or three… it’s pretty friggin’ long). Absolutely feel free to speculate wildly :)
> 
> And with that being said…
> 
> Next time: the b-side.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/frthelongestday)


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